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Chapter Text

It was common knowledge that Dazai Osamu was a prodigy. 

He could read and write before he could walk. By eight years old, he had memorized the entire Oxford Dictionary. By eleven years old, he had published a collection of essays on the plight of the human existence, and by sixteen, he could write theses that would take graduate students years to complete. 

Dazai Osamu could do almost anything. What he could not do, however, was speak French. 

Now, normally, this would not be a problem. He went to school in Yokohama, a city that spoke almost exclusively Japanese. The occasional English speaker would pass through, but that was all. There were certainly no French speakers in Yokohama, so why would Dazai waste his time learning something he would never use? 

Because Odasaku had shipped him off to Sorbonne University, Paris, and he didn’t understand anyone. 

Dazai adjusted the messenger bag over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes as he attempted to locate his Art History class. It was certainly in this hall, but this was a very large hall with droves of students filing in and out of classrooms, and that made it difficult to see what was where, even for someone of his considerable stature. 

“It can’t be far,” Dazai mused, frowning. “Maybe I’ve passed it."

When his favorite professor back in Yokohama, Oda Sakunosuke, told him to try taking advantage of the study abroad program offered there, Dazai had not been thrilled. Sure, Paris was one of the art capitals of the world, and Odasaku had told him that it would be good for him to be surrounded by other creative people (artists, he'd said with obvious implications that Dazai pretended to ignore), but he liked Yokohama and moving to a new place for his second year of college sounded like more trouble than it was worth. He would much rather stay in a place he knew, with people he knew, speaking a language he knew. 

Odasaku was convincing, though, with all his talk on the wonderful opportunities for Literature students in Paris. And Dazai may have been able to refuse him on account of such short notice, but that was when Yosano told them both that she was going abroad to study with her girlfriend for the year, and she would be happy to help him out. 

It only escalated from there. She’d convinced Ranpo, her best friend, to come along with his American boyfriend, and then Atsushi was asking to tag along, and then Kunikida decided that Yosano would lose Atsushi at some point and get him shipped off to Switzerland, and suddenly everyone was going to France like it was some kind of family vacation. 

It took exactly nine and a half days of being assaulted with talk of grand Parisian adventures before Dazai decided to pack his bags too. At this point, he was starting to regret that decision. 

“This is ridiculous,” he huffed, spinning around once, twice, in search of the right number. “Why does this place have to be so big—" 

Oof. 

The impact was startling, but the force wasn’t enough to send Dazai falling to the ground. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of the person currently sprawled out on the glossy floor amongst various papers and a few pens. He wore a plain white button-down, collar left open just enough to be tantalizing, and simple navy trousers. Dazai assumed the pair of black sunglasses on the ground were on the stranger's head before they’d bumped into each other. Very chic. 

“Oh,” was all Dazai could think to say—he tried not to smile, even though the stranger looked a bit funny sitting on the ground like that, classy dress or not. “Apologies. I didn’t see you.” 

Surely he didn’t speak Japanese, but maybe he would understand the apology anyway? Dazai really should have planned further ahead when he decided to do this. 

The stranger immediately began gathering the escaped materials, head bent so Dazai couldn’t see his face. He did have an unruly mane of red curls, though. They caught the sunlight streaming in through the window, and Dazai couldn’t help but think that they looked a bit coppery, or a bit like fire. How odd. 

“Regarde où tu vas,” the stranger snapped, closing up his bag. [“Watch where you’re going.”]

The stranger had a very attractive voice, Dazai realized. It was low and husky and the way his words flowed together was impossibly smooth. Dazai didn’t have a clue what he was saying, but he wouldn’t mind hearing it again. 

“Connard,” the stranger muttered, and that didn’t sound very nice. [“Asshole.”]

“You bumped into me,” Dazai told him (rather uselessly, probably), and extended a hand between them. 

The stranger stared at the offer for a moment, and then he clasped Dazai’s hand. He was heavier than Dazai expected, and as he hauled him up, he also found him much, much shorter. 

“You’re like a shrimp!” Dazai exclaimed. The stranger was at least a head shorter than he was, possibly more. ”Or a little slug! Did you drink enough milk when you were…” 

He looked up to meet Dazai's gaze, clearly still upset, and Dazai nearly choked on his words. 

The stranger was gorgeous. 

He had skin as pale as a porcelain doll’s, and there was a faint scattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks, so faded Dazai wouldn’t have noticed them if not for the sunlight. He had high cheekbones that sported a pale pink flush—from what, Dazai couldn’t imagine. His jawline was sharp enough to cut stone, and then there were his eyes. 

The left was a rich honey-brown, sticky and sweet and mesmerizing, and the right was blue. Raging, thunderstorm blue, like lightning on a violent ocean. Leaping, crackling blue. He would make the most beautiful painting. 

The stranger stared at him with a peculiar look on his face. He did not speak. 

Suddenly, Dazai was pulled back into the reality of the situation. While he was busy drooling over the person he’d just knocked to the ground, his Art History professor would be starting her lecture and he was missing it. 

“Ah… I should be going.” Dazai let go of the stranger’s hand (it was surprisingly calloused) and bobbed his head. “Dazai Osamu.” 

The stranger gave him a blank expression. “Je ne parle pas japonais, idiot.” [“I don’t speak Japanese, idiot.”]

Right. This was France. 

Dazai gestured to himself. “Dazai,” he repeated. “My name. Dazai Osamu.” He tapped his chest. 

Something like understanding flitted over the stranger’s face, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. His lips turned down in a scowl as he cocked his chin up, adjusting the bag over his shoulder. “Nakahara Chuuya,” he said in that same low voice— god, this was killing him. The stranger gave Dazai a once-over, and then he side-stepped him and continued down the hall without another word. 

Dazai could only blink dumbly, watching red curls disappear into the throngs of students. The stranger— Chuuya, because he now knew his name—had measured right up to the rude French stereotype Yosano had told him to throw out the window (despite being so short). He was rude, haughty, and utterly disdainful despite Dazai’s sincerity. He could still see those mismatched eyes. 

Well, shit.

***

“Il faut creuser pour trouver ces informations ; elles ne tombent pas du ciel,” the professor was saying, tapping the cover of the book she held repeatedly. “Ne soyez pas paresseux.” [You have to dig for this information; it won't drop into your lap. Do not be lazy.] 

The rest of the students were nodding and scribbling in their notebooks as the professor continued to talk, but Dazai could only stare blankly as he attempted to decipher all her prattling. He thought he might stand a chance if she didn’t speak so fast, but all the words bled together and Dazai couldn’t catch a single familiar sound. 

This was his third class of the day, Seminar in Literature, and it was also the third professor he could not understand. He planned to speak to all of them during their office hours, but there was no time for that today—Mondays were always busy, and he had a lunch date with his favorite fellow exchange students that afternoon. 

He should have invested more time into Duolingo. 

“Excuse me,” Dazai whispered, turning to the person sitting next to him. It was a girl, probably a year or two younger than him, with blonde hair tied up in a neat bun. 

Immediately, her eyes widened. “Tu parles japonais?” she asked, brow furrowed. ["You speak Japanese?"]

Dazai sighed. “I don’t speak French.” 

“Are you from Japan?” 

He blinked. The girl looked like she might be Japanese, but this was France. He didn’t expect her to speak Japanese and definitely not that well. “I am,” he replied, momentarily disarmed. That's a pleasant surprise. “Are you?” 

The girl nodded. “Moved here when I was in high school. You?” 

“Studying abroad for the year.” 

Her lips popped into an ‘o’. “Really? From where?” 

Dazai could not help but be surprised. She was much different from the stranger he had run into earlier. Certainly friendlier. “Yokohama."

“No way! That’s where I’m from!” she exclaimed, earning a few looks from nearby students. The professor prattled on in the background, and he couldn’t pinpoint a single recognizable word. “Wait a minute, you said you didn’t speak French, right?” 

Dazai turned his attention back to her and nodded. 

She looked at him incredulously. “Then what the hell are you doing here? You should be taking a French class!” 

“I just want to know what the professor is saying,” Dazai replied, patience wearing thin. “I don’t need a lecture.”

The girl stared at him for a moment. Two moments. Three. And then, without warning, she burst out laughing, hand flying to her mouth to stifle it. (It didn’t work very well). “Oh my god,” she gasped, shaking her head. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a while. You really can’t understand her?”

Dazai could only shrug sheepishly. “Nope.” 

“And you didn’t think to learn anything before you came here?” 

“It was a bit of a last-minute decision.” 

Her laughter finally began to calm down—Dazai felt like he should have been offended, but even he could admit that the situation was a bit comical. 

“Shit, that’s hilarious,” she said, shaking her head. “ Hé, Gin, écoute ça.” Dazai watched as she leaned over to the person at her left; a dark-haired girl with a mask over her mouth. “Lui il,” she gestured to Dazai, “est venu du Japon pour étudier pour genre un an et il sait dire que dalle en français. A quel point c'est ridicule?” [“Hey, Gin, listen to this. This one’s come here from Japan to study for a year or so and he doesn't know a lick of French. How ridiculous is that?”]

The girl pressed her fingertips to her lips (that’s what Dazai assumed, since he couldn’t see them) and chuckled very quietly, though she did not respond. 

“This is Gin,” the girl told Dazai. “I’m Higuchi. It’s nice to meet you…”

“Dazai.” 

“It’s nice to meet you, Dazai.” Higuchi gave him a toothy grin. “Listen, how about I just write you a summary of the lecture after class? You’ll have to figure everything else out after that, though.” 

This time, Dazai’s smile was a bit more genuine. “That would be much appreciated.” 

“Kay. Now shut up or I won’t have anything to write,” Higuchi chirped, turning to face the front of the room again. 

Dazai could not help but chuckle at the ridiculousness of this entire ordeal and follow Higuchi’s attention back to the professor. 

The rest of the morning went by quickly—Dazai assumed this was because he could doze off for most of his classes since it was difficult (impossible) to understand anything in them. He had at least two classes with Higuchi thus far, but he had yet to see the red-haired boy again. Chuuya. Nakahara Chuuya. 

It was nearing one in the afternoon when Dazai sauntered up the steps of Les Antiquaires, full of lively chatter and waiters flitting to and fro. It didn’t take him longer than a moment to find the right table—he just followed the noise. 

“And there’s the devil himself! Glad you decided to show your ugly mug, Dazai.” 

Yosano was waving from one of the larger tables, seated with the rest of the Japanese students (and Poe). There were already appetizers littering the table, and Dazai could see that Ranpo’s plate was covered in empty snail shells as he dug into yet another. 

“I’m sure you all missed me terribly,” Dazai chirped, taking the empty seat between Kunikida and Atsushi. There was one other near Yosano. 

“Not at all,” was Kunikida’s predictable reply. 

“Sure took you long enough." Ranpo was grinning widely—something about it was suspicious. “We already ordered, Yosano got you the crab. Got caught up?” 

Dazai chuckled at that. “Well, it’s difficult to explain to your professors that you can’t understand them when they can’t understand you.” 

He would have to use Google Translate and email them this evening. Maybe they could even give him transcripts for the lectures. How funny would that be? 

“That so. Nothing else?” Something in Ranpo’s eyes gleamed, and Dazai had the strange feeling that he knew something about his run-in this morning. 

“No,” Dazai told him with a perfectly complacent smile. “Nothing else.” 

Luckily for him, Atsushi could never hold his tongue for very long and swooped in to save the day. “So, Yosano,” he began eagerly, eyes wide, “you speak at least a little French, right? ‘Cause of your girlfriend and everything.” 

Yosano grimaced. “Well, not nearly as well I think I do. Kouyou makes sure to tell me that.” 

“I certainly do my best.” 

The voice came from behind Dazai, and he spun around to see a tall woman towering over him, wearing a knowing smile as she looked around the table. Her accent was heavy and Dazai could smell her perfume; very expensive, he would guess. 

“Mon trésor, you decided to join us,” Yosano chuckled, eyes following the woman as she took the seat beside her. Yosano gave her a brief kiss on the lips before turning to the rest of them. “This is Kouyou,” she said, wrapping an arm around the woman’s waist. [“My treasure.”]

“C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer,” the woman, Kouyou, told them with a polite smile. “I have heard much about you all.” [“It is a pleasure to meet you.”]

“This is Kunikida, Dazai, Atsushi, Ranpo, and Ranpo’s American boyfriend, Poe,” Yosano rattled off, pointing to each of them. 

When Kouyou’s eyes landed on him, she arched a brow, looking almost confused. “Dazai?” 

Dazai gave her an easy smile. Perhaps Yosano had told her some particularly defaming stories about him? He wouldn’t put it past her. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he replied smoothly. 

Kouyou ran her eyes up and down him once, and then she looked back to Yosano with a smile. Dazai watched her, eyes narrowed, and couldn’t help but wonder why she looked so familiar. He’d seen pictures of her, of course, but there was something strange about her that he couldn’t place. Besides, they hadn’t met before this. How odd. 

“Merci d'être allé,” Yosano told her girlfriend with a smile. “I know you’re busy.” [“Thank you for going.”]

Dazai watched Kouyou’s lips twist upward into an amused smile and frowned. That was not familiar. Perhaps he had damaged some nerves after trying too hard to understand his professors this morning. 

“It’s venue, Akiko. ‘Merci d'être venue.’” [“Thank you for coming.”]

Yosano chuckled at that, leaning in for another kiss. “Merci d'être venu, ma caille.” [“My quail.” (French endearment)]

“You two are disgusting,” Ranpo told them, playing with Poe’s hand from where it rested on his shoulder. 

Dazai sighed, shaking his head. His friends were very smart, very capable people, but sometimes he wanted to smack them upside the head. Gently. 

“So, Kouyou, how did you and Yosano meet?” Atsushi asked, blinking big eyes. He looked so interested, almost laughably so. 

At that, Kouyou chuckled. “My little brother had landed in some trouble and needed stitches. I was lost and Akiko happened to find us. She fixed it all up and when she wrote me instructions on how to take care of it, her number was written on the bottom.” 

Dazai knew this story well. Yosano had gushed to him about it just twenty minutes afterward, blushing like a schoolgirl. 

“Hey, you say that like it’s a ridiculous thing to do,” Yosano said with a pointed glance, to which Kouyou arched a brow. 

“It was ridiculous. That’s why I called you.” 

“Do you have any other family? Siblings?” Kunikida asked her. Straightforward as ever. “Or is it just you and your brother?” 

To her credit, Kouyou gave him a very polite smile. “No, I have two brothers, one elder and one younger, each by a year.” She paused for a moment. ”Speaking of which, Paul should be here soon. He’s not usually late, but his schedule can be—“

“Toutes mes excuses pour mon retard !” The voice echoed throughout the restaurant even amidst all the commotion—it was very deep. [“My apologies for being tardy!”]

It was difficult to distinguish the voice from all the others in the restaurant, especially combined with all the footfalls of busy waiters, but Dazai could tell the person was relatively young. One of Kouyou’s brothers? 

“Ah, tu as réussi à venir,” Kouyou replied, looking at someone over Dazai’s shoulder. [“Ah, you made it.”]

The stranger moved to sit down between Kouyou and Kunikida, and that was when Dazai got a good look at him. The man was tall, firstly, and quite lithe from the looks of it. He wore a fedora— aren’t the French supposed to wear berets? —and, unlike Kouyou, his hair was a very pale blonde, braided away from his face at the hairline. His eyes, too, were different from Kouyou’s; they were a very dark brown. 

At first glance, they didn’t look a thing alike. But when Dazai examined them further, he could see the resemblance. The same pronounced cheekbones, the same harsh lines in the nose, chin, and jaw. The same lip shape. 

“Bonjour, Akiko. You look well.” Now that the man was closer, Dazai could hear the low timbre of his voice. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite place it. 

“You too! Glad you could make it. Everyone, this is Paul Verlaine, Kouyou’s older brother.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Verlaine said, bowing his head. “Please forgive my Japanese, I’m a bit out of practice.” 

“Your Japanese is loads better than these idiots’ French, let me tell you,” Ranpo said, gesturing to the rest of the table. Yosano chuckled at that. 

“Bonjour, Paul.” Kunikida held his hand. " C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer. Je m’appelle Kunikida Doppo.” [“Hello, Paul. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Kunikida Doppo.”]

His pronunciation was very poor if Verlaine's amused expression was anything to go by, but Dazai was surprised to see that even Kunikida knew more French than he did. That was the second time he’d heard that phrase today and he still didn’t understand a word of it. 

“C'est un plaisir, Kunikida.” Verlaine reached out to shake Kunikida’s hand firmly, which prompted the others to make their introductions. Dazai only watched, though—he didn’t have any interest in his friend’s girlfriend’s older brother, and he seemed stuffy anyway. [“It’s a pleasure, Kunikida.”]

“We won’t wait on our other guest,” Verlaine said, looking toward Kouyou. “There are apparently other matters he needs to address.” 

“It’s not that blonde girl, is it?” Kouyou asked, frowning. Dazai thought she looked a bit like a condescending mother when she made that face. 

“According to him, they’re ‘just friends.’ If I can help it, it will stay that way.” Verlaine was frowning the same way. It was amusing, Dazai thought, considering this little brother was evidently a college student and likely an adult. “Schoolwork, allegedly. Something pressing.” 

“Are you quite picky about your siblings’ tastes in partners, Paul?” Dazai asked him, leaning forward and propping his chin in his palm. Verlaine looked over at him for the first time and arched a brow. 

“They deserve suitable companions," was the curt reply. "As most of us do." 

Dazai heard the distaste beneath those words clear as day. He didn't say anything, though, and instead leaned back in chair with a grin. "Then what ever were you thinking keeping that one around?” He gestured to Yosano and that had the table erupting in laughter, Yosano included. Verlaine didn’t look very amused, but Kouyou was chuckling quietly from behind her hand 

Right on time, a young man Dazai assumed was their waiter came around with a tray, plopping their dishes down one after the other as the laughter around the table calmed down. Dazai watched, eyes wide and unblinking, and the waiter set down a metal tripod with one large crab right in front of him, sitting on small ice cubes. 

“Bon appetit,” the waiter told them before heading off again, stopping to chat with a fellow employee for a moment or two. 

Dazai half thought he would drool. This looked delightful. 

“So, how long will you all be studying here?” Kouyou asked, sharp eyes rounding the table as they all began to eat. 

“Just for the year,” Ranpo told her without looking up from his third plate of escargot. That cannot be healthy. “As long as Akiko. Unless she’s got some reason to stay longer,” he added with a pointed glance and a grin. 

“And what do you like most about Paris?” 

“The food,” Ranpo answered with his mouth full, earning noises of agreement from the others. 

It was quieter as they all began eating, but that didn’t last long. “So,” Kouyou began, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin, “what are you all studying here?”

They went around the table with their answers. Ranpo was a Literature student and Poe studied Creative Writing (and no, those were not the same thing). Kunikida was focusing on Design, and Atsushi was the resident starving artist. 

“And you, Dazai?” Kouyou asked. 

“Literature,” Dazai said with a shrug. He was not terribly passionate about his major, but he was good at it. Reading, analyzing, impressing simpletons with big words. He thought he might want to try being an artist someday, but that was really just a childhood fantasy. The empty, untouched sketchbooks he shoved to the bottom of his suitcase years ago could attest to that. And he had no interest in living on nickels and dimes until he died. 

“I see.” Kouyou studied him for just a moment before looking away. “Interesting.”

Dazai didn’t say much for the rest of their meal, but he did enjoy watching the others chat. Kouyou was an interesting character in person—perfect for Yosano, too. They balanced each other out, chaos and calm. Verlaine, too, was interesting, but because something about him seemed familiar. Both him and Kouyou, but Kouyou was only because she looked familiar , and that was probably because he’d seen about a thousand pictures of her. Verlaine, though, had a certain way about him that was odd. Like his gaze was inexplicably heavy. 

Eventually, Dazai had to bow out on account of class. He bid his farewells, told Kouyou and Verlaine that it was nice to meet them even though they barely spoke to each other, and made his way back out with the promise to Venmo Yosano for his meal later. 

He walked into his French History class knowing full well that he wouldn’t understand a word of it, so he opted to get there a bit earlier and sit near the back of the lecture hall. Higuchi wasn’t in this class, so he wouldn’t get a scratchy summary of the lecture, but maybe he could interpret some of it. Being a genius with reading body language had its benefits sometimes, he supposed. 

The door opened just behind him and Dazai didn’t turn to see who it was. Apparently, though, he didn’t have to. The chair beside him was pulled back and, without a word, the stranger plopped down right next to him, plopping a beaten, sticker-covered laptop on the table. 

Dazai made to turn to the side— perhaps this person spoke Japanese? Surely they would be at least half as generous as Higuchi was? So far, the French seemed like very nice people. 

But when Dazai looked up, he was met with a pair of piercing, mismatched eyes. 

His heart stuttered. 

Chuuya’s lips were parted slightly, and his eyes were blown wide. He was sitting with his elbow propped up on one knee and that pair of black sunglasses pushed up from his face, but a few curls escaped them and Dazai had the sudden urge to push them back to better see his chiseled face. Chuuya stared, looking just as surprised as Dazai felt—neither of them moved. 

And now that they were this close, Dazai could see the jewelry. 

There were at least eleven rings on his fingers, catching the light from overhead as he flexed them. He had ear piercings too, at least three on each ear, but it was hard to tell with his long hair in the way. He wore necklaces that rested against his chest (his visible chest, since the first three buttons of his shirt were undone) and bracelets too, all shiny and sleek and lovely against his porcelain skin. 

“Dazai Osamu,” Chuuya murmured, blinking once and drawing Dazai’s attention back to his face. 

“Nakahara Chuuya,” was Dazai’s breathless reply, but he hardly registered saying it when Chuuya said his name like that, like some kind of precious secret to be shared in the sheets. 

Chuuya’s lashes fluttered, and he stared for a moment longer, and then he spun around to face the front of the room, spine straight and perhaps a bit pinker in the cheeks than before. “Idiot,” he murmured, so quietly that Dazai couldn’t tell whether he was talking to him or himself. 

Dazai opened his mouth to reply—tease him a bit, perhaps, because Chuuya looked lovely in pink—but he didn’t get the chance. 

“Bonjour et bienvenue dans l'Histoire de France !” the professor began, standing at the front of the room to survey the students. "Vous pouvez m'appeler Mademoiselle Moreau. Commençons.” [“Hello and welcome to French History! You may call me Miss Moreau. Let's begin.”]

Chuuya stared straight ahead as the minutes ticked by, listening intently to the professor talk and occasionally typing out notes, and Dazai opted to watch him instead of Miss Moreau. Those freckles on his cheeks stood out more in this kind of lighting, and his top lip dipped into an impressively sharp Cupid’s Bow. 

If Dazai was counting correctly (he was), it took about twenty minutes before something happened. The professor said something—what that was, of course, he didn’t have a clue—and then Chuuya’s eyes widened and he looked over at Dazai, just for a moment. 

Then, everyone began shuffling around, and Dazai was left looking around blankly to figure out what in the world was going on. Voices began to fill the classroom as the students started discussing… something, and Chuuya was still looking at him with a most peculiar expression. Disgruntled, maybe? Dazai couldn’t tell. 

“Are you going to say something or just sit there and stare?” he drawled, arching a brow. How do you say that in French? 

Chuuya gave him an unamused expression in return. “Je pensais t'avoir dit que je ne parle pas japonais, idiot.” [“I thought I told you that I don’t speak Japanese, idiot.”]

Dazai sighed at that. “You must realize by now that I don’t know what you’re saying.” He knew perfectly well that Chuuya didn’t know what he was saying either, but oh well. “What did the professor say?” 

Chuuya gave him a blank expression. 

“Professor,” Dazai tried, pointing to the woman at the front. Chuuya nodded. “What did she say?” He tapped his lips, watching Chuuya’s gaze flit from his lips to his eyes to his lips. His cheeks became pinker. 

Dazai huffed. This was clearly not working. He grabbed a pen and tore a page from his notebook instead, ignoring the considerable weight of Chuuya’s gaze. “Okay, let’s try this,” he murmured to himself, scribbling an offensively terrible rendition of their professor in the center of the page. Then, he drew a speech bubble with a large question mark in the center before handing the pen and paper to Chuuya. “So?” 

Chuuya scanned the page. He looked amused for a moment, clearly stifling a snort as he began to sketch his reply, and Dazai almost had the heart to be offended. His drawing skills were fantastic. 

It only took a moment before Chuuya handed the paper and pen back to Dazai, who looked over it with a bit of apprehension. What if he had to write a twelve-page essay? In French? 

According to Chuuya’s drawing, though, he wouldn’t have to. The paper displayed two figures Dazai assumed were the two of them, judging by the hair sloppily drawn onto them. They were sitting at a desk with papers and pens all over it, but in the center was a computer with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it and some little squiggles resembling text. Next to that was another drawing. It was of the two of them again, standing in front of a large screen with the same picture on it, both holding sticks that pointed to random places on the screen. 

And then, written at the top in what was admittedly very nice handwriting, was: “Un mois.” [“One month.”]

Un. Dazai knew that word. He could count to three in French, and that meant “one.” 

Ah. A presentation. They had one… something to do it—month, maybe? Mois started with an ‘m’ too, didn’t it? It was probably on important French landmarks if Dazai had to take a stab at it, since this was French History. 

Chuuya was watching him with narrowed eyes, flitting about his face as if to dissect his expression. Dazai wasn’t sure what he thought he’d find, though. He handed the paper back to him, adding a question mark next to mois. 

Chuuya chuckled at that, bending his head low to begin drawing again. Dazai thought he felt his heart beat a bit faster at the sight; Chuuya, head tilted down, bangs obscuring most of his face save for those damning eyes of his, red lips still quirked up in the barest smile. 

God. What was he going to do? 

Eventually, Chuuya looked up again, and Dazai averted his gaze so he wouldn’t be caught staring. The paper and pen were slid toward him, and Dazai found himself looking at a rudimentary drawing of a calendar with an arrow pointing to the final day. A month, then. They had one month to pick a historic French landmark, create a presentation, and perform for the class. 

Before he could say anything, though, the professor cut them all off. “Vous n'aurez pas beaucoup de temps pour travailler sur vos présentations ici, vous devrez donc trouver du temps en dehors des cours. Ce travail comptera pour une grande partie de votre note, ne l'oubliez pas !” she said, and Dazai watched Chuuya’s eyes go wide. He looked… irritated? Apprehensive, maybe. ["You won't have much time to work on your presentations here, so you'll need to find time outside of class. This will count for a large portion of your grade, so don't forget that!"]

“What?” he asked, and immediately, Chuuya’s gaze snapped to his. It was always heavy, Dazai thought in his minimal experience. Why was that?

“On doit faire ça hors de la classe," was Chuuya’s reply, but his expression turned from apprehensive to annoyed the moment he stopped speaking. He must have realized that I can’t understand a word, Dazai thought with mild amusement. Chuuya was cute when he was frustrated. ["We have to do this outside of class."]

He took the paper from Dazai again and scribbled for a moment before handing it back. Dazai found himself looking at the pair of them once again, but this time sitting at a table with coffee and papers. It looked like it was outside. 

Dazai frowned, looking back to Chuuya. How was he supposed to know what that meant? 

Chuuya gave him a blank stare, but Dazai didn’t budge. Wordlessly, he handed the pen back, and Chuuya sighed before taking the paper. When he was done, he handed Dazai a drawing of what looked like a classroom with a large ‘X’ right through the middle. 

Ah. No allocated work time. They would have to arrange meetings outside of class to get this done. 

What a shame. 

Dazai leaned toward him, chin propped in one hand, and Chuuya’s brow furrowed as he watched. “Are you trying to ask me out on a date?” Dazai asked with a smirk. “That’s quite the roundabout way to do it, you know.” 

He expected Chuuya to flush—at the proximity, perhaps, or the eye contact, or his tone of voice—but he was very, very wrong. 

Instead, Chuuya’s lips spread into a smile, and he ducked forward so that they were nearly nose to nose. “Est-ce que tu essaies de me séduire en me regardant comme ça, Dazai ?” he murmured, grinning like a cat and speaking in that low, rumbling voice of his that made Dazai want do to unspeakable things. [“Are you trying to seduce me by looking at me like that, Dazai?”]

He swallowed hard. One person should not have that much power, he thought and looked away. He felt Chuuya’s eyes on him for a moment, even as the professor resumed speaking nonsense, and then something slid across the desk to bump his arm. 

Dazai looked down. It was Chuuya’s phone. 

“Ton numéro,” he told him, gesturing to the new contact open on the screen. “Pour le projet.” [“Your number. For the project.”]

Dazai stared at it for a moment, and then he let out a little sigh before taking the phone. Today was testing him. He inputted the number, texted himself (using a bunch of random keys, since the keyboard wasn’t in Japanese), and handed it back to Chuuya, who handed him his phone in return. 

He didn’t add a name to the contact. Of course. 

Dazai grinned and inputted something of his own, then, looked up to see Chuuya watching him with narrowed eyes. Dazai showed him the screen with an innocent shrug. “Slug,” he told him. “Since you’re so small.” Chuuya’s eyes narrowed further. He certainly didn’t understand what Dazai said, but his tone conveyed more than enough.

Dazai gave him a wink, turned back to the professor, and pretended to pay attention for the rest of the lecture. 

Chapter Text

“He just sat there with a smug-ass smile like he thought he could sweep me off my feet like some damn bride!” Chuuya snapped, shoving the piece of brie into his mouth with palpable anger. “As if it’s not me who speaks the language of love, the fuck?” 

It was a lazy Thursday morning, a few days after he’d run into Dazai for the first time (literally). Kouyou had a little apartment right by the university and invited Chuuya over for breakfast since he had the day off, and they were now tearing into the fresh baguette and brie she’d picked up earlier. Yosano, apparently, was out for some sort of class assignment, so it was just the two of them. 

Kouyou nodded along absentmindedly to Chuuya’s rambling, hiding an obvious smile behind the rim of her own wine glass. “Yes, that sounds very hard,” she said, utterly unsympathetic. 

“I mean, who does he think he is? Shit, and now we have to do this presentation and he probably doesn’t even know what we need to do and—“ Chuuya cut himself off again with a facepalm, shaking his head. This was a disaster. He had to spend an entire month working with someone who he, A: couldn’t understand, and B: couldn’t possibly deal with when he kept acting like he could just sweep Chuuya off his feet. Who cared if he had pretty brown bedroom eyes and long, lithe fingers? Plenty of dickheads are good-looking. 

Chuuya scowled. 

“Will you cut down on the foul language?” Kouyou asked calmly, arching a brow. “You sound like a sailor.” 

“Cry me a fuckin’ river,” Chuuya grumbled as he reached for the baguette, but that only earned him a very hard glare in reply. He sighed. “Sorry, sorry. I’m irritated.” 

“I can tell.” 

“It’s just—“

“Chuuya.” Kouyou cut a piece of the brie for herself, looking at him with only the slightest smile. “Perhaps it’s time to stop complaining and start doing something about it. If this Dazai is truly that unpleasant, why don’t you get this done as soon as you can? You won’t have to speak to him ever again and I can stop listening to you whine about it every day, hm?” She watched him for a moment, eyes sharp as ever, and Chuuya noticed the twitching of the corners of her lips. 

He let out a long sigh and flopped back in his chair. “You might have a point,” he mumbled. The sooner they picked the important piece of French history to present, the sooner they could get going on the actual presentation, and that would be a piece of cake. Chuuya would probably have to do all the work since Dazai couldn’t even say hello in French without butchering it completely, but he wanted a good grade and could sacrifice a night or two. 

“Of course I do.” Kouyou waved vaguely at him, almost to shoo him away. “Now go take care of it. I don’t know how much more of this rambling I can take.” 

“Hey! For your information, I’m an adult, and I can make my own choices.” But Chuuya was already standing and making his way toward her, pressing two quick kisses to her cheeks. “Thanks for breakfast. Say hi to Akiko for me, too.” 

“Of course.” 

Chuuya pulled his shoes back on and made his way back down to the first floor, bag thrown over one shoulder. He had some groceries to buy for dinner tonight, but other than that, his day was open. He could call Higuchi, he supposed, since she always tried to spend her days off doing nothing anyway. 

Then again, getting this presentation over with would be really nice. 

There was a nice market a few blocks from Kouyou’s apartment, so Chuuya didn’t bother with the metro. The weather was perfect; sunny without beating down on the sidewalk, humid but not enough to ruin his hair. It was still early, so there weren’t many people walking around besides a few tourist families. 

Chuuya felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket and chuckled when he saw Higuchi’s name pop up on the screen. “Hey, Ichiyou.” 

“Hey, loser,” she replied. “Whatcha up to?” 

“Just grabbing some seafood for tonight. Probably a loaf of bread, too, and some of that truffle cheese you got me hooked on.” 

“Oh my god, it’s like heaven, isn’t it?” 

“Can’t live without it.” 

She hummed. “Well, I’m moving into my new place soon, and I’ve decided that I wanna have people over sometime soon. Y’know, just some fun, probably get shitfaced. Just wanted to let you know way ahead of time.”

Chuuya couldn’t help but chuckle. Higuchi tended to have very strange timing sometimes, despite herself. “Okay, I appreciate it. That all?” 

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” she asked, sounding almost genuinely offended. 

“Well, it is a little weird that you’d call me just to tell me you wanna have people over when you get moved in. Isn’t that in, like, two weeks? Three?” 

“Clearly, you’ve never met yourself,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s always, ‘Sorry, Ichiyou, I’ve got night classes,’ or ‘Shit, I totally forgot like the total stupid idiot dumbass I am,’ or—"

“I get it,” Chuuya cut in, rolling his eyes and smiling anyway. 

“Good. I’ll keep you posted."

"Thanks." 

"Oh, hey, will you come over later? I wanna stalk all of the exchange students—Yosano and that crew, y'know?—and you should join me."

Chuuya snorted. This was not the first time they'd done this and it would hardly be the last. "Sounds good. After dinner?" 

"Yep," she said, popping the 'p'. "Oh, and be quiet on your way up—Mrs. Cheveau is in a really bad mood today and she might beat you with that fire poker if you wake her up." 

Chuuya shuddered. The crotchety Mrs. Cheveau might have been one of the few people he was genuinely scared of. "Thanks for letting me know." 

"For sure. Later!” 

“See ya.” 

Chuuya chuckled to himself as he pocketed his phone again. He didn’t know someone who had as many thoughts going in and out of her head at once as Higuchi did. He still thought she should get tested for ADHD. 

Chuuya was distracted enough that he didn’t even notice the other person walking toward him until he accidentally bumped their shoulder, sending him stumbling a step or two. 

Instead of a French curse, though, the stranger spoke something completely foreign. “すみません、” he said and Chuuya stopped in his tracks. He knew that voice. [“Excuse me.”]

“Dazai?” 

The stranger turned around and, sure enough, there was Dazai Osamu in all his tall, Japanese glory. He wore brown today, like he had the day they’d met, but the glasses were new. 

Chuuya wanted to curse. He looked good. 

“ああ、” he breathed, looking more than surprised to see him. “こんにちは、Chuuya.” [“Oh. Hello, Chuuya.”]

Kouyou’s voice echoed in the back of Chuuya’s head. Why don’t you get this done as soon as you can? 

He glanced down at his bag. Groceries could wait, couldn’t they? 

“Hey, are you busy?” 

Dazai blinked at him, expression blank, and Chuuya pinched the bridge of his nose. Right. He didn’t have any paper, and judging by Dazai’s lack of a purse or bag, he didn’t either. 

Chuuya huffed. Not a lot of options. He could use a translator app or something, but that was just plain inconvenient. 

“Whatever, fuck this.” Without elaboration, he grabbed Dazai’s wrist and began dragging him in the opposite direction. No time like the present, right?

He heard Dazai sputter behind him, clearly caught off guard, but he didn’t really care. They needed to finish this quickly and Chuuya was nothing if not an opportunist. The Musée d’Orsay was nearby—within walking distance—and there wouldn’t be many tourists since it was a Thursday morning in the fall. They could pick an art piece, and if that didn’t work out, there was always something like the Arc de Triomphe or, as a last resort, the Eiffel Tower. 

“We’re going to the d’Orsay,” Chuuya told Dazai, who seemed to get over his shock enough to walk next to him instead of being dragged behind. 

Oh.

Chuuya blinked. Dazai’s heart was beating really fast. 

But he pushed the thought aside when the large clock quickly came into view and pointed to the sprawling building. “The d’Orsay,” he repeated.  

Apparently, that was a word Dazai recognized (who wouldn’t?). His eyes widened slightly, but he also looked a bit confused with the furrow of his brows. “なぜ私をそこに連れて行くのですか?” he asked. [“Why are you taking me there?”]

Chuuya sighed and didn’t bother with a reply. Instead, they walked around to the side of the building, where there were only a few people in line to get tickets. Chuuya loved Paris in the fall—no crowds of tourists at every major destination. Besides, the leaves were so beautiful.

He bought two tickets for them—Dazai made to get out his wallet, but Chuuya stopped him despite the amusing sight—and they made their way into a blissfully empty museum.

“Okay, let’s grab a notebook.” Chuuya tugged on Dazai’s arm again—he hadn’t let go of him yet—and couldn’t help but chuckle at the awestruck expression he was met with. 

The d'Orsay was quite the sight to behold. Sculptures covered the entire first floor and carved roses covered the ceiling, each one the size of a person. It was one of Chuuya's favorite buildings in Paris—the clocks were magnificent, and he loved all the green with the windows on either end. Who would have thought it used to be a train station?

They made their way into the gift shop and Chuuya purchased one pen and an overpriced notebook with one of Monet's water lily paintings on the cover. Once they reached the front of the actual museum, Chuuya opened to the first blank page. 

“‘Kay, let’s see.” He settled on drawing the two of them (stick figures, obviously) surrounded by rudimentary sketches of a few paintings, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and a mirror for Versailles, accompanied by question marks above each of their heads. “Here.” 

He handed Dazai the notebook and watched, eyes narrowed, as he attempted to decipher the drawing. After a few moments of silence, he seemed to understand, because his lips popped into an ‘o’ shape and he nodded, meeting Chuuya’s gaze. 

Dazai’s eyes were sharp, Chuuya had decided. Usually, he thought brown eyes were gentle and doe-like, a bit like Higuchi’s, but Dazai’s weren’t. They weren’t cold either, but perhaps calculating? Like there was too much going on behind them for most people to comprehend. He could always tell when Dazai was looking at him—his skin would go warm and prickly and he just knew. 

“いいですね、” was Dazai’s reply, almost soft enough to be a whisper. [“Sounds good.”]

Chuuya nodded decisively, taking that as confirmation. “Good. Let’s get going, then.” 

They started with the sculptures in the very center of the first floor. It was just like a cliché movie; there were shallow steps in the middle of the room, and on each of them were sculptures on various pedestals (mostly nude women). They passed the notebook back and forth as they wandered through the maze, exchanging notes and knowing glances when they saw something particularly odd or intriguing. Most of their conversation consisted of Dazai asking about the origins of each sculpture and Chuuya telling him the little he knew from his previous art history courses. None of them were particularly influential to French culture—if they were looking for that, they should have gone to the Louvre—but they were still beautiful. 

The paintings surrounding the sculpture maze seemed to capture Dazai’s attention far better than the sculptures. Various renditions of the birth of Venus were scattered about the rooms—Chuuya had always been fascinated by the way the painters could make everything look so soft. 

There were also the giant paintings near the back of the first floor, one of which was painted by Gustave Courbet and spanned nearly six meters. It was titled The Painter’s Studio, but there was no Japanese card to the side that explained the title or depiction of the scene, so Dazai had scribbled in the notebook for a moment before passing it to Chuuya. 

He laughed out loud when he saw the drawing. 

There was a stick figure seated in front of an empty canvas surrounded by crowds of poorly drawn stick figures, and standing in the middle of the page with a hoard of question marks above her head was the most rudimentary drawing of a nude woman he had ever seen. 

Chuuya did his best to draw some books in the hands of the stick figures, along with some contemplative faces, but he could only get so far. Eventually, he just had to laugh at their awful art skills and hand the notebook back to Dazai, who only rolled his eyes at his own idiocy before they moved on. 

Chuuya wasn’t sure how many hours they spent simply on the first and second floors. Once they’d finished with the sculptures and the ridiculously large paintings, they moved up to more sculptures and more paintings. There was a large polar bear statue that Dazai found very amusing, and Chuuya showed him the sculpture of youth being left behind by man for death (one of his favorites). 

They continued to pass the notebook around, but far less in these parts of the museum than in those displaying all the furniture. Chuuya had not seen most of it since he took one look into the rooms and decided he would rather watch paint dry, but he was surprised to find that it was almost enjoyable with company. Sure, Dazai was an idiot who couldn’t stop staring at him to save his life, but he was also witty and Chuuya’s stomach hurt terribly by the time they made it out (after having made fun of every piece of furniture in the display). 

After they’d cycled through the artwork on the second floor, Chuuya led them toward the very front of the museum. They walked on bridges that overlooked the first floor, which Dazai seemed to enjoy if his perpetual soft smile was anything to go on. 

Eventually, though, they made it into a wide room with almost no art on the walls. The entire space was painted a deep burgundy with the exception of the dark wood floor, and the true art piece stood proud at the end of the room. 

Spanning 6.60 meters in diameter, casting the room in hazy white as it overlooked the glittering Seine, was a clock. 

It was one of two in the museum—the other was almost entirely gilded and hung above the entrance—but only this one could be observed so closely. It faced outward, so they were standing at the clock’s backside to see the city. 

Chuuya looked over at Dazai and grinned at the surprise written on his face. “Pretty incredible, huh?” Usually, this room was crowded with people, but that was in the spring and summer. Now that they were moving into fall, the museums were far less swamped and right now, they were completely alone. 

Dazai laughed softly. “信じられないよ、” he said, shaking his head with a smile. “フランス人はドラマチックなことが大好きだね。” ["That’s incredible. You French do love to be dramatic, don’t you?”]

Chuuya understood enough with that smile on his face, so he pulled them toward the clock. “C’mon, you can see the Seine from here.” 

They walked right up to the metal bar at the end of the room, keeping them just a few feet from the actual clock face, and Chuuya watched Dazai’s eyes as they scanned the sprawling view. Paris was laid out before them from here—they could see the tour boats on the Seine, a piece of the Louvre, the district of Montmartre. 

Chuuya couldn’t help but grin. He’d seen the view a thousand times in his life and it would never stop filling him with pride. 

“なんてきれいな街なんだろう、” Dazai said, snapping Chuuya from his daze. He looked over at Dazai, watching the way the pale light filtering in through the clock face added specks of silver to his warm eyes. [“What a pretty city.”]

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Chuuya leaned back from the railing and gestured to the exit, lolling his head back to where Dazai was still staring out at the city. He looked so enraptured, and Chuuya… he would always savor witnessing the moments someone fell just a little bit more in love with Paris. 

Eventually, he got Dazai to turn away from the clock, and then Chuuya led them up to the third floor. Dazai was quiet as they ascended the stairs, but when Chuuya reached the first room and turned around, he had to smile as Dazai’s eyes widened. 

Chuuya couldn’t blame him. Flooding the room, pinned to every wall, were stacks upon stacks of Monets. 

He grinned and gripped Dazai’s hand. “C’mon.” 

Of all the beautiful artwork in the d’Orsay, this collection was his very, very favorite. Chuuya took him first to the paintings of the Notre Dame, all the same except for the different lighting, which meant they were not the same at all. 

“There are so many of these,” Chuuya told him, smiling widely. “He makes the Notre Dame look so beautiful.” 

Dazai didn’t understand a word of it, obviously, but he did reply. “これがノートルダム寺院だ、” he murmured, eyes wide and blinking. “とても美しい。私たちのプレゼンテーションには、ぜひこれを使うべきだわ” ["That’s the Notre Dame. It’s so beautiful. We should definitely use those for our presentation.”] 

Chuuya tapped the notebook in his hands and Dazai blinked, apparently coming out of his daze. He took a moment to scribble something down before handing it to Chuuya, who was faced with a painfully rudimentary drawing. He could make out the two of them, though, pointing sticks at a screen with what looked like it was supposed to be one of Monet’s paintings of the Notre Dame. 

He couldn’t help but smile. “If only. Not important enough to French history, though.” 

Dazai furrowed his brow and Chuuya chuckled, taking the notebook from him. 

He drew a very quick sketch of the same painting, then the Eiffel Tower with a crown over it, before handing it back to Dazai. He observed Dazai while he deciphered the drawing—Chuuya hadn’t noticed this earlier, but when he was thinking about something, he tended to bite his bottom lip. 

Chuuya found it annoying that it was kind of sexy. 

Dazai chuckled, then, eyes crinkling at the corners, and handed the notebook back to Chuuya before taking his hand, interlocking their fingers. 

Immediately, Chuuya yelped. “Shit, your hands are fucking cold!” he exclaimed. “The fuck are you, some kind of lizard?” 

Dazai seemed to get the message because he laughed again, shaking his head, and tugged on their hands as he moved along the wall to the next paintings. 

Time moved slowly in the museum. Chuuya showed Dazai everything—the Degas, the Manets, the Renoirs. Dazai seemed to love the ballerinas—one of the Degas sculptures, of a young girl with an upturned chin, was especially captivating. Chuuya watched, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall, while Dazai walked around the glass case again and again and again, eyes narrowed and lips upturned just slightly. 

“You like that one?” he asked. 

Dazai’s gaze snapped to his. For a moment, he looked like a deer caught in headlights, like this was the first time he’d seen Chuuya. His expression smoothed out, though, and his smile widened a bit. “そうだ、” he said quietly. “とてもね。” [“Yes. Very much.”]

Chuuya approached the glass case, smiling at the little ballerina. He’d always loved Degas’ sculptures—this one was not his personal favorite, but he loved the peacefulness in her expression. Just looking at it made the tension release in his own muscles. 

They moved on. There were more Monets to see—this part of the floor was full of them—and Chuuya had two in particular he wanted to show Dazai. 

It took them a moment because Dazai seemed very fascinated by Degas’ ballerina paintings, but they made it eventually. Chuuya tugged on his sleeve, pausing in front of two small paintings hanging side-by-side. 

The first was a painting most believed was of a Bastille Day celebration; Chuuya liked that idea. The paint looked like an absolute disaster up close, what with the sea of mismatched colors and giant blobs of paint covering the canvas. But when one stepped back a few paces to look at the piece as a whole, it all came together. The streets of Paris were flooded with red, white, and blue stripes, and one could practically hear all the shouting from the people waving flags out their windows and marching amongst the old cars. 

The second was of the Saint-Lazare train station, and of all of Monet’s paintings, this was one of Chuuya’s very favorites. The blues and yellows and pinks were perfect as they made up the thick steam that wandered through the station, wafting about the train and the boarding passengers alike. Chuuya could hear the bells and the shouting of mothers at their children to hurry and find their seats. He could smell the steam, the cigar smoke from the fat businessmen, the floral perfume of the pretty girls with their fur coats and tall boots, the dirt on the little kids trying to pick pockets. 

“本当に好きなんだね。” [“You really love that one.”]

The sudden statement startled Chuuya from his trance and when he blinked himself back to reality, he found Dazai leaning against the wall, looking at him with a peculiar smile. 

Chuuya didn’t understand what he said, but he turned back to look at the painting again with a pleasant hum in his chest. “I love this one,” he breathed, unable to swallow his smile. “It’s perfect.” 

Dazai was quiet for a moment while Chuuya took one last moment to take everything in, and then he spoke again. “物事を愛するあなたはとても可愛い、Chuuya,” he murmured. It was spoken softly, close enough to a whisper that it may not have been meant for anyone’s ears by Dazai’s. ["You’re very pretty when you love things, Chuuya.”] 

Chuuya blinked. He spun around. “You said my name.” Now he really wanted to know what Dazai had said. 

The only reply was the furrow of Dazai’s brows and the downturn of his lips. 

Chuuya pulled out the notebook again and handed it to him, but Dazai didn’t pull out a pen. All he did was quirk a lopsided smile, stick the notebook in his back pocket, and put a finger to his lips. 

“それは秘密だ、” he said, and though Chuuya couldn’t understand him, he got the message just fine. [“That’s a secret.”]

“That so?” Chuuya stepped toward where Dazai was leaning against the wall with one leg propped up and his hands in his pockets. He could see the amusement in his expression begin to fade with his smugness—good. 

Chuuya continued to invade Dazai’s personal space until they were standing chest to chest and he could feel his breathing. The rhythm is uneven. If Dazai tilted his chin down just a bit more, their lips could likely touch.

He didn’t reply—because he didn’t understand or something else, Chuuya had no idea. 

What he did know was that this was fun. 

“You wanna know what I think?” he asked, voice low. The overhead lights cast a warm glow on Dazai’s hair, highlighting some of the strands in golden, and he knew he wasn’t imagining the flush on Dazai’s cheeks. So, with that bit of encouragement, Chuuya reached out and slid a hand onto Dazai’s waist, fingers brushing the skin on the crest of his naked hipbone as he leaned back into the wall. 

He felt Dazai’s breath hitch. 

“Hm?” Chuuya leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of Dazai’s ear. “Osamu?”

It happened fast. One moment, Chuuya was on his tiptoes, lips on Dazai’s ear, hands on his waist, and then Dazai was turning away and pushing Chuuya backward, blinking furiously and mouth slightly parted. He looked… shocked, for lack of a better word. Utterly taken aback. 

And his cheeks were so pink. 

“やめてくれ—中也—“ Dazai stopped and started, turning away and shaking his head. “そんなことはするな。” [“Don’t—you—don’t do that.”]

Chuuya hummed. “You’ll have to write that down.” 

“心臓発作を起こしそうだ、” he muttered, wrapping his coat tighter around himself and ducking his head to hide his face. [“I’m going to have a heart attack.”]

Normally, Chuuya would take all this as a sign to genuinely back off. He would never want to make someone deliberately uncomfortable. 

But.  

Dazai had this idea in his head that he could sweep Chuuya off his feet with his awful French and his shiny glasses and his stupid smirk and that was complete, utter bullshit. 

Chuuya wouldn’t give in. Hell, he could probably seduce Dazai instead, and it was fun to see him like this, flushed and off his guard. 

Chuuya walked over and took Dazai’s hand before he could object. “C’mon,” he chuckled, gesturing to the rest of the room. “There’s a lot more to see.” 

It took nearly three hours to get through the third floor. Chuuya couldn’t help himself—everything was just so beautiful. Dazai listened to him ramble about each painting as they passed the notebook back and forth (even though he didn’t understand him). Dazai would say things that Chuuya didn’t understand either, but usually, they got the message across. 

By the time they reached the last room, both of their hands were covered in ink and the sun was probably starting to reach its afternoon low. 

Chuuya was going to ask Dazai if he wanted to get something to eaT, but the words stopped before they reached his lips when Dazai pulled his sleeve from Chuuya’s grasp and approached one of the many paintings lining the wall. 

His eyes were wide and his lips parted, but the corners were unmistakably quirked upward. Chuuya trailed after him—what had him so raptured?— until they reached one of the smaller paintings, and then he understood. 

It was one of Monet’s water lilies. 

This one was all pale greens and yellows, featuring a bridge suspended over an overgrown pond. It was not impressive in size, but Chuuya felt that pleasant hum return to his body when he looked at it. 

Dazai stared at it for a few long moments, and Chuuya stood back to watch him in silence. He’d quickly learned during this trip that Dazai hadn’t seen hardly any European art in the flesh, so practically every piece in the d’Orsay was a revelation. 

Eventually, Dazai turned around, and Chuuya was struck by the look of wonderment on his face. He was smiling widely, eyes glittering like rubies in the golden light overhead, hair mussed and falling in his face. “これは私の一番のお気に入りだ、” he said. “フランス文化にとって十分に重要なものに違いない。そうでなければ泣いてしまうかもしれない。” [“This one is my very favorite. It must be important enough to French culture. I might cry if it isn’t.”]

He approached the piece, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Dazai. The painting itself was not as culturally significant as many of the other pieces in Paris (it didn’t hold a candle to something like the Arc du Triomphe or the Eiffel Tower) but perhaps using it to reference Monet’s 250-piece collection of water lilies could work. He was practically the pioneer of the Impressionist movement, which had a huge impact on France and, later, the rest of the world. That had potential. 

Chuuya turned to Dazai. “Yeah,” he said, grinning. “This could work.” 

He knew the message got across just fine when he saw Dazai’s answering smile, just before he pulled out the notebook and jotted down, in very questionable lettering: Claude Monet, Le Bassin Aux Nymphéas. 

***

By the time they finally left the museum, it was far past lunchtime and still too early for dinner. Chuuya was not particularly starved after his late breakfast with Kouyou, so he took Dazai to a little pâtisserie just a few blocks from the museum. 

It smelled like butter and sugar when they walked in, and Chuuya could see a young woman pulling out fresh croissants in the back. “I’ll be with you in just a moment!” she hollered. 

Chuuya was feeling for a Chaussons aux Pommes, but it took him a moment to realize that Dazai probably had no idea what any of the desserts were. [Apple turnover.]

“Hey.” He turned around to find Dazai frowning at the case of parties, looking very, amusingly confused. “Hey, Dazai, will you give me the notebook?”  

Dazai gave him a blank look. 

“The notebook,” Chuuya repeated, pointing to where Dazai had it tucked into his pocket. 

Dazai’s lips popped into an ‘o’ shape before he handed the notebook and pen over. Then, immediately, he pointed to one of the pastries, looking expectantly at Chuuya. 

“Oh, that’s a Pain Au Chocolat,” he said, drawing his best recreation of a croissant and a chocolate bar right next to each other before showing it to Dazai. [Chocolate croissant.]

Dazai hummed and pointed to another. 

That was how the next fifteen minutes proceeded. Dazai pointed to a pastry he didn’t know and Chuuya would do his best to draw what was in it, along with labeling them in French. Eventually, Dazai seemed to pick up enough to decide what he wanted, because when Chuuya finally told the young woman they were ready and ordered his Chaussons aux Pommes, Dazai walked up to the counter and confidently told her: “Pain au Chocolat, please.”

Chuuya blinked. His pronunciation was far from perfect and he would have to work on stressing the right syllables, but… it wasn’t bad. 

“Will that be all?” 

Chuuya stepped in. “Yes, that’s all.” 

“Wonderful, that will be 4.20€.” Dazai made to grab his wallet but Chuuya beat him to it, giving him a smug grin. The young woman seemed amused by this as her eyes flicked between him and Dazai. “Do you need a receipt?” 

“No receipt, thank you.” 

“Alright, you two have a lovely rest of your day!” 

Chuuya made to leave, following Dazai out, but the young woman cleared her throat and tapped his arm. 

“You and your boyfriend are very cute together,” she told him with a warm smile. 

Chuuya blinked. Boyfriend? Surely they didn’t look like boyfriends, right? That would be ridiculous—they were classmates. 

The young woman didn’t seem to catch on to his inner turmoil because she only chuckled and left the register, leaving Chuuya to frown at the wall instead. 

Jeez, he thought, shaking his head and making after Dazai, who was already halfway done with his pastry. Some people are so blind. 

While Chuuya grabbed his Chaussons aux Pommes from the bag, he could feel Dazai’s eyes on him and looked up, finding them narrowed and scrutinizing. “What?” He frowned. Did he have something on his face? 

“彼女は何と言った？” he asked, gaze flitting around Chuuya’s face. “あなたはトマトのように赤い。” [“What did she say to you? You’re as red as a tomato.”]

Chuuya tried to study his expression to see if he could decipher all that, but it was futile. He pulled out the notebook and handed Dazai the pen instead. 

Chuuya watched him scribble for a moment and when Dazai returned the notebook, he was met with a picture of two little stick people on opposite sides of a questionable table, one with a ponytail and a question mark inside of her chat bubble. 

Oh. He wanted to know what she said.  

Chuuya looked up to meet Dazai’s gaze, taking in that ridiculous half-smile and that knowing glint in his eyes from behind those wire-rim glasses.

He recalled his conversation with Kouyou earlier this morning. He just sat there with a smug-ass smile like he thought he could sweep me off my feet. 

Chuuya grinned. He closed the notebook, tucking it safely under his arm and pocketing the pen. Then, he took a bite of his pastry, turned on his heel, and started down the cobbled road without another word, leaving Dazai blinking and frowning behind him. 

Chapter Text

Since Dazai’s visit to the d’Orsay, his life had been surprisingly pleasant. 

He settled comfortably into all of his classes—most of his professors just gave him a little slideshow of any material covered translated into Japanese, which was very nice. He had to transfer into a different language class, which was a pain, but it would be worth it. He went out with the rest of his friends for lunch most days and spent his evenings annoying Kunikida while he cooked dinner for them. He talked often with Higuchi and Gin—the latter had a brother Atushi’s age, apparently. Dazai swore he saw the two of them together between classes now and again. 

It was easier to write, too. Dazai didn’t like admitting when other people were right, but he wrapped his ego and thanked Oda for practically forcing him onto that plane to France. Being a Literature student was much more difficult in his stuffy dorm in Yokohama, but living in a city brimming with inspiration, he was finding it easier. Was it his favorite thing? Of course not. But it made all those droll words much more tolerable. 

He also got to explore the city. Kunikida would sometimes accompany him and sometimes he would go alone, but being able to see such an old city with such a unique atmosphere was a privilege Dazai hadn’t expected to savor. The architecture especially was breathtaking—he thought he could stare at the intricate apartment buildings for hours. 

Paris was lovely, it truly was. The best part, though, was Chuuya. 

Dazai spent the entirety of French History talking to him—stolen glances or scribbles in their notebook or poking here and there—and it was glorious. He could pick anything to make fun of and Chuuya’s face would light up with this indescribable life that had Dazai’s chest tightening every time. Chuuya would hiss something to him in French that was surely very vulgar (which he quickly learned was Chuuya’s specialty based on all the looks they received from passersby) and Dazai would nearly swoon because it always sounded so pretty, especially when Chuuya used that low, throaty voice that made him more than a bit weak in the knees. 

They had more outings, too. Sometimes they were planned, but usually, Chuuya would just drag him away after class, and they became frequent enough that Dazai started expecting (looking forward to) them. He knew it was ultimately for the project, but it had only been a few weeks and Dazai felt like he’d already seen the entire city. Chuuya took him to see Tuileries Garden, Sacré Cœur, the Notre Dame. He saw Sainte-Chapelle, the Arc du Triomphe, he walked along the Seine. He spent at least a week at the Louvre in various company. Each destination was lovelier than the last—it was almost offensive how truly bursting with beauty Paris was. 

At each destination, Chuuya would tell him of the importance to France. Sometimes he would talk about the building itself, sometimes the artwork inside, sometimes the land it was built on. He would usually start ranting in French before realizing that Dazai didn’t have a clue what he was saying, and then he would stick out his lower lip and furrow his brow and Dazai would have to bite down on the urge to kiss him senseless. 

Today, it seemed, was one of these impromptu excursions. Dazai was just making his way down the hallway when a head of red hair caught his eye and he found Chuuya approaching him, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his trousers. Dazai fought very, very hard to keep his eyes on Chuuya’s instead of wandering to his exposed chest where his shirt was undone, the lean muscle in his arms, his incredibly distracting amount of jewelry. 

Dazai swallowed. 

“Viens avec moi,” he said, and when Dazai didn’t reply, he huffed and held out his hand. “Je veux t'emmener dans un endroit différent aujourd’hui.” [“Come with me. I wanna take you somewhere different today.”]

With the light coming through and shining on the passing students, Chuuya’s hair looked like spun copper. An unruly mane of red-hot flame, some kind of—

Chuuya yanked Dazai from his thoughts by grabbing his hand and dragging him out into the courtyard. For someone at least a head shorter than Dazai, he was incredibly strong. 

Realistically, he should probably ask where Chuuya was taking him. He should probably grab the notebook or attempt to decipher Chuuya’s expression. 

But if Dazai was being honest, he wasn’t sure anything would come out if he tried. 

Chuuya looked over at him and immediately grinned, shaking his head. “Vous avez l'air ridicule,” he chuckled, and perhaps he was going to say something else, but he was cut off. [“You look ridiculous.”]

“Hé, vous allez où bande d'idiots?” [“Hey, where are you idiots off to?”]

The voice sounded across the courtyard—a familiar voice. Dazai and Chuuya both turned around and found none other than Higuchi Ichiyou walking toward them, arm-in-arm with Gin. (It had taken him an embarrassingly long time to realize that they were dating. Higuchi laughed at him for three minutes straight when he finally figured it out).

“J'étais sur le point d'emmener cet idiot boire un café,” Chuuya replied, grinning cheekily as the pair reached them. Dazai blinked. [“I was just about to drag this idiot out for a coffee.”]

Higuchi arched a brow. “Vraiment ? Il était temps, j'en ai marre de l'entendre parler de toi. C'est dégoûtant.” [“Really? It's about time, I'm so sick of listening to him blab about you. It’s disgusting.”]

Dazai had no idea what they were talking about, but they were clearly close. There wasn’t a bit of tension in the conversation—he could tell that much, at least. 

In reply, Chuuya’s grin turned into a surprised look, and then it became suspiciously smug. “Ah ouais ?" He glanced at Dazai for a brief moment, looking very amused. “Bon à savoir.” [“That so? Good to know.”]

“What are you two gossiping about?” Dazai finally cut in, feeling slightly offended and even more confused. 

Evidently, Higuchi found this funny. “Oh, nothing at all,” she hummed. “I was just telling Chuuya about this little get-together I’m having next week since I’m almost totally moved into my new place. You should come.” 

She was lying through her teeth and they both knew it, but Dazai decided to play along. “Really?” 

“Yep,” she said, popping the ‘p’. “I’ll send you the details. Chuuya’s already coming so you won’t be totally alone.” 

Chuuya perked up at the sound of his name—a bit like a dog, Dazai thought with no small amount of amusement. 

“I had no idea you and Chuuya knew each other,” Dazai said casually. Based on their earlier conversation, he could easily assume they were talking about him. Likely his mooning over Chuuya if that tantalizingly smug smile was anything to go by. 

“‘Course. Known each other since I moved here.” 

“Ah.” 

Higuchi finished texting him whatever details for her party and pocketed her phone, giving them both a grin. “'Kay, well, I won’t keep you. Just wanted to say hi. Hey, send all that stuff to Yosano and the others, would you? Everyone’s welcome!” Then, she winked at Chuuya and added: “Profitez du date.” [“Enjoy the date.”]

Dazai didn’t understand that, but he did notice that Chuuya’s cheeks immediately flushed. “C'est pas ça,” he groaned, but Higuchi just laughed and turned around, arm-in-arm with Gin, waving to them. [“That’s not what this is.”]

“Au revoir!” [“Goodbye!”]

Chuuya watched them go with pink cheeks before letting out a soft chuckle and shaking his head. “Elle est quelque chose,” he muttered, just before straightening up again and turning to Dazai, arching a brow. “Alors?” [“She’s something.” “Well?”]

Dazai took that as a confirmation of whatever excursion Chuuya had decided for them this time, so he just nodded and let himself be dragged off campus. 

They walked along the Paris boulevards without any haste; Dazai usually walked slower than normal anyway, since Chuuya was so short, but this time was even more relaxed. Chuuya had the notebook in one hand and would point to things as they passed—busts above apartment doors, intricate golden gates on balconies, flowers sitting outside cafes (likely wilting from the cigarette smoke, Dazai thought with a little pity). Sometimes he would try to tell Dazai about them in the notebook, sometimes not. They went on like that for at least half an hour, though, wandering in and out of plazas, around metro stops, between crowds that gathered to watch the street jazz on every other corner. 

Like always, Dazai spent the entire time teasing Chuuya about all kinds of things; his unruly hair, his height, his equally short fuse. It was so indescribably delicious to see his face light up with all kinds of irritation without even knowing what Dazai was saying. He prided himself on conveying enough smugness to get the point across. 

At the moment, Dazai was leaning comfortably against an intricate limestone apartment building, complete with golden railing on the mini balconies. They were waiting to cross the street and Dazai watched Chuuya as he paced back and forth on the corner, hands in his pockets. It was shady where they stood, but he could very clearly see all the lines of Chuuya’s figure; the lean muscle of his chest that led up to his broad shoulders, his neck dripping with jewelry, his sharp jaw. Dazai had a hard time believing he wasn’t actually a sculpture carved over hundreds of years by the most meticulous of artists. 

Chuuya turned. Their eyes met, and Dazai watched his lips curl into a knowing smile just before he looked away, feeling the smallest prickling in his cheeks. 

“Un truc à dire ?” Chuuya asked, voice throaty and low as Dazai heard his footsteps approach. [“Something to say?”]

“No,” Dazai replied—that was a safe answer, right? Probably. 

Judging by Chuuya’s smirk, though, he couldn’t be sure. He stood a few measly feet away, eyes flitting over his face, up and down and around more than once. Chuuya’s gaze was not scrutinizing or sharp, but there was a certain weight to it he had yet to get used to. 

Before either of them could say anything, a group of people (in their early thirties, maybe?) came stumbling down the road, laughing and shouting and waving their hands around like madmen. One of them bumped into Chuuya as they passed, causing him to stumble right into Dazai. The group took the cacophony of noise with them and Dazai couldn’t help but chuckle at the death glare he sent their way. 

"You're too short for your own good, you know,” Dazai hummed, grinning when Chuuya fixed him with an irritable expression. He was still crowding Dazai’s space, but he pretended he was paying it no mind. 

Chuuya’s brow furrowed and a familiar spark of anger lit up his eyes. “J'te défie de continuer,” he snapped. [“I dare you to keep going.”]

Dazai couldn’t help but smile. He was so easy to rile up. “Someone's going to pick you up off the street one of these days and then who will I have to make fun of?”

The reaction was immediate. Chuuya’s hand shot up to his collar and gripped it hard, lips twisting into a scowl. "Je vais t'étriper comme le maquereau visqueux que tu es," he hissed, grip tightening as he yanked them closer. Like this, Dazai could smell the jasmine of his shampoo and see the anger swimming in his eyes. [“I'm gonna gut you like the slimy mackerel you are.”]

"Oh, Chuuya," he sighed, grinning like a fool. "I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

Chuuya searched his expression for a moment, stock-still save for his eyes, and then he let go. Dazai watched him step back, shoving his hands into his pockets, and jerk his chin toward the now-empty roads. “Allez, idiot. Nous avons des endroits où aller.” [“C’mon, idiot. We’ve got places to be.”]

Dazai followed him, smiling to himself as he reached Chuuya’s side. 

Eventually, after much more wandering and a delightful amount of teasing, they reached a bustling corner on Saint-Germain. Dazai didn’t have a clue what was so important about it—as they got closer, he realized it was a cafe, but it seemed like that was all. For a Tuesday afternoon in a slow tourist season, though, it looked very busy. The sign read: Les Deux Magots. [The Two Maggots.]

“What makes this place so important?” Dazai asked. It was a beautiful cafe, but all the cafes in Paris were beautiful and they all boasted divine cuisine. 

Chuuya quirked a knowing half-smile that made Dazai’s heart stumble. 

When they reached the front, a young woman with a wide smile said some things to Chuuya, who said some things back, and then he looked over at Dazai expectantly like he was supposed to understand them. 

“L'intérieur ou l'extérieur ?” he asked, pointing to the building and then to the collection of small tables and chairs outside. [“Inside or outside?”]

Ah. Dazai surveyed the place for a moment before gesturing to the seating outside. Chuuya smiled a bit at that and told the young woman, who smiled even wider and began leading them through the maze of people to an empty table—one of very few, it seemed. 

“Merci, Madame,” Chuuya told her before taking a quick look around at the people sitting around them. It was very close quarters, which Dazai was realizing was how all Parisian cafes were. To his surprise, though, there were no cigarettes around them, which was a very welcome change. ["Thank you, ma'am."] 

They were sitting in the sun, so as Chuuya was looking around, the light hit his hair and made it look like leaping flames. His eyes, too, were alight in a way that made Dazai feel slightly breathless. 

He cleared his throat and picked up one of the menus. All of the items were listed in both French and English, so he could decipher at least some of the words. This must have been a popular tourist destination, especially since there were quite a few English speakers around them. Why would Chuuya bring him here, though? 

A snort brought him out of his thoughts and he found Chuuya watching him, amusement written all over his face. “Tu as l'air si confus,” he chuckled, spinning one of his rings around his finger. [“You look so confused.”]

Dazai huffed. “It’s not very nice to make fun of me, you know.” 

Chuuya arched a brow, still smiling. “Ai-je blessé tes sentiments ?” [“Did I hurt your feelings?”]

“It’s starting to hurt, Chuuya, truly. Do you know how cruel you have to be to hurt someone who can’t understand you?” Dazai shook his head ruefully. “It’s quite the feat.” 

Chuuya chuckled at that, but he didn’t respond when the same young woman from before came around again, asking them something in French (what they wanted to order, most likely). He caught “café” somewhere in the conversation, but when Chuuya gestured to him and said something to the woman, Dazai was thoroughly lost. 

Regardless, he trusted Chuuya to order him something good. Maybe a little less after all the teasing, though. 

“Chuuya,” Dazai said after a moment, savoring the way Chuuya’s gaze snaps to his. Against the midday sky, his left eye looked like sticky sweet sugar, and his right was so blue. “Why are we here?” 

Chuuya narrowed his eyes, staying silent. Likely trying to decipher his expression so they wouldn’t have to grab the notebook. 

He tried again. “Why are we here?” he asked, pointing to the building. 

Chuuya seemed to understand. He pulled the notebook out from his bag, and Dazai watched for a few moments as he scribbled something into it. When he passed the book to Dazai, he found a crude drawing of many people sitting around a table, and then an arrow that pointed from them to what might have been the cafe. Four of them had a name written above them: Hemingway, Beauvoir, Sartre, and Picasso.

Oh. This was a popular artist destination, then. Dazai nodded, watching Chuuya’s little smile when he saw the understanding. 

He grinned. “So,” he began, leaning forward, “is this how you take out all of your dates? Under the guise of school projects? You can be honest with me, slug, I understand. You aren’t the first who has been unable to resist my charms.” 

Chuuya seemed to recognize a word or two if the slight widening of his eyes was any indication. He stared at him for a moment, expression unreadable (which was saying something, since that was Dazai’s area of expertise). When they were close like this, Dazai could see all the different shades of blue in Chuuya’s right eye. There must have been at least a hundred. Dazai would go bankrupt on paint if he tried to replicate them on a canvas—he would do it, though. He would do it happily. 

Before Dazai could react, though, Chuuya was leaning forward and reaching his hand out, and Dazai went completely still as he brushed his thumb against Dazai’s chin, their faces now just centimeters apart. Chuuya didn’t look away for a moment. 

“Tu veux que ce soit un date?” he asked lowly, arching a brow. [“Do you want this to be a date?”]

Dazai blinked. He smelled like cool wind and coffee, and the hair that fell in front of his face framed it like a crown. 

Chuuya leaned back all too soon, taking the warmth with him as he smirked, all devil-may-care attitude and ruthless beauty. “Attention, chère. Tu vas gober des mouches.” [“Careful, dear. You’ll catch flies.”]

It was then that Dazai realized he was staring and shut his mouth tight. There was no use trying to disguise his blush, though, so he took a moment to look around at the surrounding buildings instead. They were beautiful, of course, and made of the same limestone as the rest of the city. There were lots of people wandering around with shopping bags, so he could safely assume there was a shopping district nearby. 

He caught sight of the particularly busy corner just across from them and narrowed his eyes. It looked like a cafe if the bustling waiters were any indication, but it looked just as crowded as this cafe, which seemed odd since it was two o’clock on a Thursday. Café de Flore, it read on the awning. 

“Is this just a popular time for coffee?” he asked. 

Chuuya looked around to where Dazai was looking and immediately laughed, turning back around. Before Dazai could try to explain his question, Chuuya took the notebook back from him and began to draw again. Dazai wasn’t even sure Chuuya knew what he was thinking, but when the notebook was passed back to him, he was surprised to find a drawing of the other cafe, along with an arrow between the two buildings and an angry face above each. 

Dazai stared at it for all of two seconds, and then he let out a snort. “Really?” he asked, to which Chuuya nodded, grinning. Rival cafes. How funny. 

Before either of them could say (or draw) anything else, though, the young woman reappeared, carrying two steaming cups. She smiled and told them both something that Dazai didn’t know but Chuuya clearly did, and then she was gone. 

The coffee itself looked regular enough and smelled lovely. That was not what took Dazai by surprise. 

“They’re so small!” he exclaimed, gesturing to their cups. They were at least a third of the size Dazai was used to. “Almost as small as you, my dear slug.” 

His point clearly got across, because Chuuya’s features immediately twisted up in delightful irritation. “Bâtard,” he replied, rolling his eyes. [“Bastard.”]

“Don’t worry, Chuuya, you’re still as pretty as a picture. Being as tiny as a fairy can be charming for some people, you know.” 

Chuuya perked up at the sound of his name and narrowed his eyes. “Tu es insupportable,” he said finally, shaking his head and taking a very small sip of his coffee. Espresso, Dazai guessed. ["You're insufferable."]

He should probably try his own suspicious coffee too. It didn’t look suspicious and it definitely didn’t smell suspicious, but he was beginning to learn that Chuuya had a troublemaking streak in him that should not be underestimated. Dazai believed he just liked to see him squirm. 

Dazai picked up the tiny cup and examined the coffee. It was paler than Chuuya’s and the cup was ever-so-slightly bigger, but other than that, they seemed much the same. He could feel Chuuya’s gaze on him as he lifted the cup to his lips. 

It did not burn his tongue. Dazai assumed it would be scalding, but the temperature was rather pleasant. It was also surprisingly strong—not as strong as Chuuya’s likely was, but richer than he was used to. There was cream or milk in it, he assumed, though it didn’t seem like very much. 

It was divine.

“What is this?” he asked Chuuya, who was watching him with an annoyingly smug smile. 

“Un café noisette,” he replied, still grinning. Clearly, someone was feeling good about themselves for guessing correctly. It made Dazai sniff indignantly and set the cup down. [“Hazelnut coffee.” Hazelnut refers to the color; it’s espresso with a little milk or cream.]

“It’s fine,” he said, turning his nose up. “I’ve had better.” 

Chuuya snorted. 

The minutes passed delightfully slowly after that. Chuuya told him about the history of the cafe and its rivalry with its neighbor. He talked about all the artists and writers and philosophers that had been patrons over the years and why it had become so popular now. Usually, he would draw pictures and then label things in French, emphasizing certain words. Dazai now knew how to say “artist” and “maggots.” 

Dazai, in turn, talked about himself a bit. How he grew up in Yokohama, how he became friends with Oda and then the rest of the exchange students. How he came to France, how he's studying Literature. Chuuya seemed confused when Dazai told (and drew) this, though. 

"Littérature?" he asked, brow furrowed. ["Literature?"]

Dazai nodded. 

"Je croyais que tu étudiais l'art," he muttered, perhaps to himself. ["I thought you were studying art."]

Dazai didn't catch everything in that sentence, but he did hear 'art.' He had not mentioned anything of the sort to Chuuya before—not that he could remember, anyway. Why would Chuuya assume he wanted to be an artist?

Vaguely, Dazai wondered if Chuuya had somehow uncovered the little Instagram account he used to post his dabbling and felt something cold wash over him. He hoped not. That was purely for Oda's sake, who insisted he start it and told Dazai he'd fail him if he didn't keep it open and updated. 

Chuuya finished his coffee and picked up their pencil, just about to begin drawing something in the notebook, but a voice echoed through the air and they both paused. 

“Chuuya!” 

He turned at the sound of the voice, but all Dazai had to do was stare ahead at the two people walking their way. He had to listen to enough of Yosano’s calls to recognize that voice, and even if he were in doubt, the head of long red hair approaching them would have squashed it immediately, accompanied by a blond braid that very few could pull off. 

Chuuya twisted around again and, just for a moment, he looked slightly irritated. For some reason, it had Dazai smiling. 

It only took a moment before Kouyou and Verlaine reached them, arm-in-arm and dressed as elegantly as ever. It looked like they had just come from the other side of the cafe, but Dazai couldn’t be sure. 

As they approached, though, Dazai could quickly tell that they all knew each other. How?

Kouyou made the effort to put on a polite smile when they got to the table, but Verlaine seemed far less pleased as Chuuya began to speak. 

“Que faites-vous ici tous les deux ?” he asked, brow furrowed. [“What are you two doing here?”]

Kouyou hummed. “Un de mes profs a annulé aujourd'hui, donc j'avais plus de temps. Arthur nous a offert un café à Paul et moi.” [“One of my professors canceled today, so I had some extra time. Arthur treated Paul and I to coffee.”]

“Que faites-vous ici tous les deux ?” Verlaine asked, gaze flitting to Dazai for a moment. As he ran his eyes up and down him, Dazai couldn’t help but wonder how someone could look so judgmental in just one look. It was almost impressive. [“What are you two doing here?”]

Chuuya shrugged, looking perfectly nonchalant, and gave an easy reply. Dazai had no idea what he said, of course, but he thought he could listen to Chuuya talk for the rest of his life without tiring of it. 

Just as Verlaine opened his mouth, Dazai caught sight of a young man with impressively long black hair and eyes that almost looked gold in the sunlight. He was approaching them with a small smile and when Verlaine turned to see him, he said something with a far kinder tone than what he had been using a moment ago. 

The most bizarre thing, though, was that he was dressed for the Arctic. 

“Oh, salut, Arthur,” Chuuya said (he was also sounding much more polite, which Dazai wasn’t sure if he should be offended by). He turned to Dazai, gesturing to the man. "Voici Arthur Rimbaud." [“Oh, hi, Arthur.” "Meet Arthur Rimbaud."]

The man returned the greeting, albeit quietly, and Verlaine wrapped an arm around him. Boyfriends, Dazai assumed. He continued to study the man—Rimbaud—and his ridiculous attire, complete with gloves, earmuffs, and a large red plaid scarf. 

Verlaine glanced at him for a split second before returning his attention to Chuuya. “On allait se balader un peu avant le prochain cours de Kouyou. Pourquoi est-ce que vous nous rejoindriez pas ?” [“We were going to wander for a little while before Kouyou's next class. Why don't you two join us?”]

Dazai watched Chuuya’s expression tighten—his lips pinched, his jaw clenched—but he said nothing. The pair stared each other down for a moment, long enough that it nearly stopped being amusing and became concerning, but finally, Chuuya looked away and met Dazai’s gaze. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he looked a bit irritated. 

He began gathering their things, stacking cups and plates on the table, and that was when Dazai realized that Verlaine had probably invited them to join their little party. He stood, pasting on a smile as Chuuya quickly paid the young woman and they made their way out to the sidewalk. Just lovely. 

The sidewalks on Saint-Germain, as it turned out, were much wider than in other parts of the city, where one could barely walk in single file. This would have been a welcome change if Dazai could walk beside Chuuya, watch the way his hair lit up in the sun and tease him for not being able to keep up with him. 

Regrettably, he was stuck walking with Verlaine instead. 

Under normal circumstances, his should not have been anything to rue. He had not spoken more than a sentence or two to Verlaine, so there was no reason to assume that this would be an unpleasant excursion. 

Unfortunately, Dazai knew better. 

“I apologize for interrupting you and my brother,” Verlaine began, speaking in accented but impressive Japanese.

Brother. Of course. Dazai knew there was something familiar about Kouyou when they'd first met, and now he knew why. He should have put the pieces together sooner, frankly, but she and Verlaine seemed so different from Chuuya. More poised, restrained, elegant. Less hot-headed, perhaps, smoother around the edges. 

“You looked like you were having fun together," Verlaine continued smoothly, looking ahead. 

Dazai fought the urge to sigh. Not even a bit of small talk before they got to this? “I’m sure he didn’t mind,” was the most polite reply he would allow himself. 

The corners of Verlaine’s mouth twitched. For some reason, Dazai didn’t think that was a good sign. “You two seem quite close. I assume you have classes together at Sorbonne?” Verlaine’s tone was conversational enough, but he could sense the threatening undercurrent. 

“We do. Chuuya had just invited me out to work on one of our class projects,” Dazai told him, keeping his tone light and sticky-sweet. Why not tell Verlaine what he wanted to hear, right? That they were simply classmates working on a project? At least it would provide some entertainment. 

Verlaine nodded. “I see. Kouyou has told me that you and your friends are all here for a year abroad. Do you plan to stay for longer?” 

Such an innocent question. 

“I might have a few reasons to stay,” Dazai answered with a saccharine smile. 

Chuuya, Kouyou, and Rimbaud chatted animatedly up ahead of them. Kouyou and Rimbaud both seemed like the type to speak very intentionally without stumbling into rants, but Chuuya was very different (Dazai had come to know this very well). He was waving his hands around as he talked about something or other while the other two watched him with soft smiles. 

“I see. And what are you studying right now? You still have a long while before you need to decide on a major, no?” 

Dazai kept the smile plastered on his face. “I’m majoring in Literature,” he answered curtly. 

Verlaine’s smile didn’t waver either. “Literature? How interesting. Rimbaud and I are both Literature majors as well. Poor Chuuya is the outcast there—I can’t recall the last time he read of his own accord.” He chuckled and Dazai chuckled with him, both equally false. 

“He has told me extensively about that.” 

“Has he?” Verlaine fixed him with an innocent glance, looking almost genuinely surprised. “So you do speak French?” 

Dazai nearly smacked himself in the forehead. Shit. He walked right into that, didn’t he? “As much as I wanted to take a French class this semester, they were full by the time I was able to register,” was his not-answer. Not his finest work and likely not enough to throw Verlaine into another topic for discussion, but perhaps it would open up some opportunities for Dazai to do just that. 

Verlaine seemed unfazed. “What a shame. It must be difficult to navigate the city without speaking our language.” 

Dazai did not miss the subtle “our” in that. “It would be far more difficult if not for Chuuya,” he said innocently. ”He’s quite the sweet-talker.” 

That had Verlaine stiffening slightly. Dazai bit down on his smile. “It is quite impressive how close the two of you seem. I believe you met only weeks ago, correct?” 

Dazai thought about that for a moment. It might have been true—three weeks, now? A month? He didn’t know. It has felt much shorter. “I’m sure you could ask Chuuya,” was what he settled on. 

Verlaine didn’t react. “If I remember correctly,” Dazai almost rolled his eyes, “the Japanese often use honorifics, no? As I’ve learned the language, they are most often used as signs of respect.” 

At that, Dazai couldn’t help his smile. “That’s correct. Most of our honorifics are for more formal relationships, though, such as between a student and teacher or for older relatives,” he explained as cloyingly as possible. “Between equals, for example, they tend to be a bit less common, but it all depends on the kind of relationship. It varies for everyone.” 

Verlaine’s jaw feathered. “I see.” 

Dazai was so lost in the spar that he didn’t realize the others had stopped until he nearly ran right into Chuuya, catching himself just inches away. 

He could practically see Verlaine’s amused smile. 

When he looked around, he realized that they were back at Sorbonne University, having come full circle from this morning. Dazai didn’t have any more classes to attend, but it seemed Kouyou did as she gave Chuuya and Rimbaud quick kisses on their cheeks. She said some things that sounded like thanks, and then, to Dazai’s surprise, Kouyou approached him. 

“I apologize that we didn’t get to speak much on this trip,” she began with a slightly softer accent than Verlaine’s and with a slightly more genuine smile. The bar was low, though, and he got the feeling that she felt similarly about him as Verlaine did, if not slightly more optimistic. “I hope you have been enjoying your time here.” 

Dazai got the feeling that that wasn't an area of interest for her, but he smiled anyway and bobbed his head. "I appreciate that."

She turned to go and Verlaine took her place, leaving a polite distance between them as he eyed Dazai with a scrutinizing gaze. “It was a pleasure to talk to you, Dazai,” Verlaine said. They both knew it was a lie, obviously. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay, however short. Chuuya and I will both be sorry to see you go.” His eyes gleamed like daggers. “Please make the most of the time you have left here in Paris.” 

The threat was far from subtle, and Dazai smiled. “Thank you, Verlaine,” he said without bowing his head an inch. Verlaine eyed him for a split-second more, and then he turned on his heel to follow Kouyou and Rimbaud back onto campus. 

Like a breath of fresh air, Chuuya bounded over to him with the sky reflecting in his eyes. “Dis-moi que Paul t‘as pas interrogé,” he huffed, looking concerned and irritable and confused all at the same time. It was an adorable sight, actually. [“Tell me Paul didn’t interrogate you.”]

But, of course, Dazai had no idea what he was saying. He caught Paul, but that was all. “Chuuya, my dear, you know I can’t understand you,” he sighed, smiling faintly despite it.  

“Cet enculé,” he muttered, looking more and more irritated by the second. ”J'vais l'étrangler. Ils captent pas que je suis un putain d'adulte ?” [“That asshole. I'll string his neck. Do they not realize that I'm a fucking adult?”]

Dazai reached out for his shoulder. “Hey, what—“

“C'est ridicule !” he exclaimed, shaking Dazai off in favor of pacing the sidewalk. He was talking very quickly now, even quicker than normal. Everything he said just bled together in an angry mess to Dazai. “C'est ridicule ! Il agit comme si j'pouvais pas prendre soin de moi et j'en ai marre, putain !” [“It's ridiculous! He acts like I can't take care of myself and I'm fucking sick of it!”]

“You—“

"Si j'veux traîner avec toi, ducon, c'est ce que je vais faire, et—" [“If I want to spend my time with your dumb ass, that's what I'm gonna fucking do, and—”]

“Chuuya.”  

Without thinking, without taking a moment to consider anything, Dazai reached out and cupped Chuuya’s jaw, the other hand going to his nape to bring him close—just centimeters away. 

He went silent. 

“There’s no need to get so worked up over Verlaine,” he murmured. Judging by what he’d picked up and Chuuya’s sudden irritation, he could only assume Verlaine and Kouyou’s overprotectiveness was the cause. And if not, Chuuya didn’t know what he was saying anyway. 

They were standing with less than a foot between them, Dazai bent over so he and Chuuya were at eye level, noses nearly touching. He could feel his heart thumping erratically in his chest, in his throat, in his fingertips, but he didn’t care one bit when they were standing this close and he had Chuuya’s head in his hands, fingertips brushing his jawline and the hair at his nape.

Gone was the anger from a moment ago. His eyes were wide and his lips parted slightly, looking more shocked than upset. That makes two of them. 

Chuuya had a lot more freckles than Dazai thought. When they were this close, he could see the ones that were a bit paler than the others, spattered onto his nose and cheeks like paint specks. Chuuya looked like he could be in a painting, actually. Maybe a Monet displayed at the Musée d’Orsay, where he stands atop a hill covered in daisies and dandelions. He would wear a loose shirt with an open neckline like always, covered head to toe in every piece of jewelry imaginable, and the breeze would ruffle his coppery curls the way it would a fairytale prince. His eyes would match the sky, and he would be wearing that devilish heartbreaker grin. Dazai could imagine it so clearly it felt like a memory—he wanted to paint it. 

Dazai hadn’t realized he’d been staring or that his fingertips had been following Chuuya’s jaw until he heard his voice and snapped back to reality. “As-tu terminé ?” Chuuya asked, voice breathy and low. [“Are you finished?”]

Dazai’s breath hitched. He let go, stepping back immediately and shoving his hands into his pockets. He could feel a flush creeping up his neck—perhaps he should have worn that turtleneck after all. His heartbeat was a fitful thump, thump, thump in his ears as he watched Chuuya watch him, gaze heavy as ever. 

Dazai cleared his throat. “Well, I had best be off, slug,” he said, doing his best to sound nonchalant. “Don’t get snatched up while I’m gone.” 

His tone must have succeeded, because Chuuya’s expression twisted up with irritation in a flash. “Putain de bâtard,” he snapped, waving a hand and spinning on his heel. Dazai watched him go for a moment before turning the opposite way. 

Dazai looked up at the blue Paris sky and let out a long, defeated sigh.

He's going to be the death of me. 

Chapter Text

Chuuya needed a new family. 

“Paul really just threatened him the whole time?” Higuchi bit into her croissant and Chuuya watched all the flakes fall onto her plate. 

“Can you fucking believe him? I’m not some snot-nosed kid, he doesn’t need to act like my damn mom,” he snapped, looking away to watch the crowds of students pass them by. He and Higuchi always got lunch on campus at least once a week, but he really needed to complain today and dragged her out to the nearest outside table right after class despite her protests. 

“Damn. That’s rough.” 

Chuuya snorted. “Thanks for that stellar advice.” 

Higuchi rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Well, okay, you don’t speak Japanese, right? Maybe Paul was just giving him the dad talk or something, y’know? ‘You hurt my daughter, I’ll put you through my meat grinder and feed you to the dogs.’ That sort of thing.” 

The thought of Dazai being shoved into a meat grinder was only slightly amusing. “No, he was definitely threatening him.” Verlaine had a specific way of speaking when he was being passive-aggressive with people, and his smile was always far too placating to be believable. 

Higuchi hummed. “Honestly? I think you’re getting too worked up about this.” 

Chuuya sighed. She was right as usual—he tended to blow things out of proportion, especially when it came to his brother. He just couldn’t help the anger that swelled up in his chest every time he thought about the fact that Verlaine didn’t think he could make these decisions for himself. 

When he met Higuchi’s gaze, he found her looking at him with a smug grin. 

He narrowed his eyes. “What.” 

Her grin widened, just before she said very quietly: “I told you so.” 

“You fucking—“ 

He lunged for her, snatching the unfinished croissant right from her hand. She gasped and immediately attempted to steal it back, but Chuuya held it too far away for her to reach. She struggled futilely for a few minutes, which was a far more amusing sight than Chuuya thought it would be. 

Eventually, though, she gave up. “You’re a sick bastard, you know that?“ she huffed, sitting back in her chair and giving him a death stare. 

Chuuya chuckled, taking one little bite out of the croissant before giving it back to her. He wasn’t that cruel. 

She glared at him as she finished it off. “I’ve changed my mind, you’re not invited to my party anymore. I don’t allow croissant-stealers in my home.” Her scowl melted into a little smile. “‘Sides, my aunt would fly all the way over here just to beat my ass with a ladle or something if I did.” 

One thing he would always appreciate about Higuchi was her ability to distract him. She was an airhead with severe attention problems, but he was grateful for that right now. 

“Would she?” 

“Oh, yeah. She liked pastries more than she liked me, I think.” 

Chuuya had only met the woman once, just a few weeks before she left France. She was a stern person with a pointy face and an affinity for feathered hats, and Chuuya remembered wondering if she liked Higuchi very much at all when they visited her apartment. When she gave the place to Higuchi after she left, though, he supposed the question was answered. He wondered if it still smelled like cigarettes. 

“Hey, did you and Dazai ever decide what you’re gonna do that project on for French History?” Higuchi asked, drawing Chuuya out of his thoughts. “Gin’s in that class and said you guys only have one more week to get it done.” 

He grimaced. “No, we haven’t.” 

“Seriously?” she snorted, shaking her head. “You took him out on all those dates—I’m sorry, ‘sight-seeing excursions’—and you don’t even have something to present on?” 

When she put it like that, it did sound a bit ridiculous. For the better part of the month, all they’d been doing was walking around Paris. Dazai had seen everything by now, all the major landmarks and historic artifacts and museums. They had an entire notebook to prove it, too, filled with lists and rudimentary drawings and nonsensical squiggles. 

Chuuya groaned, plopping his face into his hands. He was pretty sure he stopped dragging Dazai around because of that project a while ago.

Higuchi laughed at him, patting his shoulder. 

“Shut up,” he grumbled. 

“Hey, no shame. Do you know how long it took Gin and I to finally man up and talk about it?” She chuckled. “Way too long.” 

He made to reply, but the sound of footsteps approaching them had him pausing and raising his head. When he twisted around, he saw two very familiar people headed their way. 

“Hey, kids!” Yosano called out, arm-in-arm with Kouyou. The pair pulled up chairs and plopped down at his and Higuchi’s table without any fanfare. 

Higuchi’s eyes lit up. “Hi! What are you two doing around here?” 

Yosano winked. “Just wasting time ’til next class. You?” 

“I’m helping Chuuya with his dumbassery,” she replied smoothly, all three of them ignoring Chuuya as he choked on his water. 

Yosano seemed to find that comment amusing, naturally. “That’s tough work,” she said with a grin, patting Chuuya’s back as he continued to cough. 

Higuchi nodded sagely. 

“Well,” Chuuya cut in, clearing his throat and gathering up his things. It was a poor attempt to pivot the conversation away from his ridiculous situation, but oh well. “I’ve gotta run, class starts soon. Thanks, Higuchi, see you Akiko, Kouyou.” 

“Later, loser.” 

“See ya, kid.” 

“Goodbye, Chuuya.” 

Chuuya made his way toward the English building—it wasn’t a complete lie, he did have class starting in fifteen minutes. He took his usual seat at the front of the room, settling in just as the professor sauntered up to the little podium and smiled at the class. 

Normally, it would have been impossible for him to transfer into the class a week into the semester when it started at eleven in the morning, but Chuuya got lucky. 

“Welcome back to Japanese I,” the professor said with a wide, warm smile. “Let’s begin.” 

***

Don’t fuck it up, don’t fuck it up, don’t fuck it up—

Chuuya let out a breath and popped the lid back onto his liner, examining his handiwork in the mirror while Tachihara continued to mumble like a crazy person as he tried to ‘fix’ his hair. 

Chuuya didn’t usually wear much makeup, if any, but he liked to have fun with it every now and again. Besides, a sultry wing like this made his eyes pop. 

“This shouldn’t be that hard,” Tachihara grumbled, running his hands through his hair for the hundredth time this evening. 

Chuuya snorted. “It looks fine. You’re just making it worse.” 

“I’m not going for fine, Chuuya!” Tachihara exclaimed, looking genuinely distressed. “I’m going for incredibly sexy and irresistible. Besides, there’s no need to patronize me when you’ve already got that…” he trailed off, waving vaguely at Chuuya’s head. “That mane of yours.” 

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” 

“I wish I could insult your luscious hair, Chuuya, I really do!” 

Chuuya chuckled, adding the smallest bit of glitter to his inner corners before stepping back to analyze the entire outfit. 

Chuuya would not call himself a particularly self-centered person, but he could admit when he looked good or not, and he looked good. These were his favorite pair of jeans, just loose enough around the legs to keep him from looking like an idiot, but tight enough to make his ass look great. He decided to wear his oversized Alice In Chains t-shirt despite the clusters of fraying holes peppering the shoulders, and he paired it with his favorite pair of black Converse (just as loved). He threw his oversized leather jacket over his shoulders for the walk, since it still got chilly at night at this time of year, but the outfit really wasn’t anything fancy. He piled on the usual amount of jewelry, and then he made his way into his bedroom, ignoring Tachihara’s complaining. 

Chuuya opened his nightstand drawer and frowned. He sifted around blindly for a few moments, scowling at the wall until finally, he felt the soft, familiar leather against his fingertips. 

He pulled out the choker, smiling to himself as he clasped it around his neck. It had been a birthday gift to himself as a teenager and since then, he hardly took it off.

“Yo, Tachihara, you almost done?” he hollered, running a hand through his hair as he grabbed his keys off the hook by the door. 

“Yeah, just a sec!” was the predictable reply, but Chuuya knew it would be at least another five minutes. 

He pulled his phone from his pocket to pass the time, eventually finding himself scrolling through Instagram. He had already stalked Dazai and all of his friends on every social media account they had (well, in truth, it was Higuchi doing the stalking while Chuuya watched from over her shoulder). 

Most everyone’s online presence was exactly as he expected. Ranpo was very popular for his wit and nonchalance about saying outlandish things, but he only followed Yosano and Poe. Atsushi seemed to just repost cute animal videos, and Kunikida’s accounts were all private. 

The only person that genuinely surprised him was Dazai. 

Initially, Chuuya had expected thirst traps. The way he spoke to Chuuya, despite being so clearly out of his element, oozed displaced confidence that had Chuuya thinking he had him all figured out. As time went on, though, and Chuuya was able to decipher him a bit better, he wondered if he ran some sort of book account. He was a Literature major after all, and very well-versed in books across all genres. 

Then, Chuuya started wondering if perhaps he avoided social media entirely. He was not a very vulnerable person, at least not that Chuuya had noticed. He watched him talk to classmates, professors, even friends, and there was always a consistent wall put up between the two parties. Sometimes, with people like Kunikida for instance, the wall was lower or thinner, but it was still there. Dazai didn’t seem to be comfortable with being seen as a human being, with human thoughts and wants and feelings. Chuuya sometimes thought he would rather be some sort of ghostly apparition. 

However, when Higuchi used her incredibly terrifying internet detective skills to uncover every known detail about the motley group of Japanese students, she only found one account of Dazai’s—on Instagram—with actual content. She had just stared at it with a confused look on her face until Chuuya leaned over to see for himself what was so puzzling, and when he did, he was just as confused about what she found. 

Dazai posted art. 

There were charcoal drawings, oil paintings, pencil sketches on the corners of pages. Many of the latter were of random people, some of whom were not even given a face, but there were a few drawings of Kunikida or Yosano (usually wearing an offensive expression or scrunched up in a ridiculous pose). Those were the most stylized pieces, and also Chuuya’s favorites. 

There were cityscapes too, though, with tall, towering buildings and neon lights reflecting on the wet sidewalks. Yokohama, Chuuya had guessed, and thanks to the excruciating detail in each piece, he almost felt like he’d already been there.

Dazai didn’t seem to use the account often, but he made it quite a while ago, so there was a neat culmination of posts for Chuuya to scroll through. 

And they were good. 

The art was better than good, in Chuuya’s opinion. Despite the collage of different subjects, styles, and mediums, there was a certain rawness to each piece that remained consistent—the lines jumped off the pages and the colors came alive against one another. He had a gift, that much was obvious, but Chuuya could also tell how much he loved it. 

He found himself itching to ask about it often on their little outings, but something told him that if Dazai wanted to talk about it, he would. Chuuya could wait. He did nearly push the topic while they were out for coffee that afternoon, but Kouyou and Verlaine had interrupted and he couldn’t broach the subject further. He was not sure if he regretted that or not. 

“Chuuya? Hey, man, you good?” 

Chuuya blinked, looking up from where he’d been staring at a dark screen. Tachihara stood in front of him, brow scrunched and hair looking just like it had two minutes ago. 

“Something up?” 

Chuuya shook his head. “Sorry, just thinking.” 

Tachihara gave him a skeptical look but let the matter drop, opening the door and traipsing down the hallway. 

Getting to Higuchi’s was a bit of a trip since Sorbonne was quite far from the Eiffel Tower, but they made it just in time to be fashionably late. 

Everything was already in full swing when they arrived. The lights were low, the music was loud, and the entire apartment was crowded with people. Chuuya saw lots of familiar faces on his way in, just before he found Higuchi in the middle of the chaos, hair let down from its usual bun as she spun poor Gin around. Everything smelled like alcohol. 

“Oh, hey, you two made it! ‘Bout time!” She bounded over to him and Tachihara, cheeks slightly ruddy and smile wide. “You guys look hot,” she said with a grin before giving them each a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Love it.” 

Chuuya snorted at that, wiping the lipstick from his cheek. “You reek.” He couldn’t actually tell if it was Higuchi or just the place that smelled so strongly of alcohol, but if he had the opportunity to make fun of her, he would. 

Higuchi just stuck out her tongue. “You suck. Go get some drinks, we’re leaving.” She spun around on her heel and nearly toppled over, saved only by Gin’s arm around her waist. Chuuya snickered at that. 

Tachihara shook his head as they watched them go. “She shouldn’t be allowed to drink. Ever.” 

“Nope.” 

They made their way toward the kitchen—Tachihara poured him some suspicious-looking drink that, as it turned out, was surprisingly pleasant. Tachihara went off to find some guy he’d been talking to lately (also a ginger, funnily enough), which left Chuuya to go out and do as he pleased. 

He wandered around to say hi to his classmates and other people he wouldn’t call friends but would feel bad ignoring, enjoying the pleasant warmth of the alcohol in his gut and the thundering of the music around him. He enjoyed evenings like this, when he could forget about the looming beasts of school, of his future, of tomorrow, and dance with strangers who were pretending the night away too. 

He continued to drink, too, and felt his head begin to grow slightly fuzzy. It was a pleasant, almost exhilarating feeling, knowing that he might say something damning or just plain stupid (which he tended to do when he was drunk). His body felt warm, his head light, and he savored it. 

Suddenly, someone grabbed his hand and dragged him into the very middle of the crowd. Chuuya could hardly see thanks to such dim lights, but he would recognize that butterfly hair clip anywhere. 

“Hey there, kid!” Yosano laughed, spinning him around and causing the remnants of his drink to slosh. “Just get here?”

“A little while ago, yeah.” 

“You look pretty tipsy already—that your first drink?”

Chuuya shot her a glare. His being a lightweight was completely irrelevant to his current fuzzy-minded state. “That’s none of your business.” 

Yosano chuckled and spun him around once more, which made Chuuya’s stomach feel just slightly queasy. She looked amused by this, of course, and grinned. “Well, I’ll let you go puke and whatever. Glad you’re here.” Just before she disappeared back into the crowds, though, Chuuya didn’t miss the comment she threw over her shoulder: “Dazai’s in the kitchen, by the way.” 

Chuuya ignored the faint flush he felt in his cheeks and finished the last of his drink, tossing the cup into the nearby trash can. He hadn’t assumed Dazai would be here—he wasn’t one for crowds, nor did he seem very interested in drinking. 

Chuuya made his way to the kitchen. 

It was practically empty—one of the few places in the place that was—and the lighting was far brighter than anywhere else, so Chuuya found himself squinting and blinking excessively when he finally escaped the crowds. 

“ああ。やあ、Chuuya.” [“Oh. Hi, Chuuya.”]

The voice startled Chuuya from his irritation with the bright lights and when he looked up, he found Dazai seated on the counter with a surprised look on his face. Chuuya didn’t miss the way his eyes ran up and down his body, lingering in some places and then immediately finding somewhere else to pretend to be interested in. 

“Hi,” Chuuya said with a smile, walking toward him. Dazai’s eyes looked razor-sharp as always, and there was a half-empty cup beside him on the counter. Chuuya leaned back against the kitchen island to observe him. He wore a loose black Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a pair of plain jeans. Minimal jewelry save for a few rings, which was a damn shame if Chuuya had anything to say about it because Dazai would look great dripping in metal and jewels. 

Not that it mattered. Chuuya didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the weird kitchen lighting or the fact that he had just been thinking a lot about him lately, but Dazai looked incredibly, unfairly attractive right now. 

Chuuya was used to Dazai being his usual good-looking self, but something about him now was just extra sexy. Chuuya couldn’t put his finger on it. 

“あなたは見つめています、知っていますか。” [“You’re staring, you know.”]

Based on that slightly smug smile, Chuuya could safely assume Dazai was teasing him. Probably about checking him out for so long. “You stare all the time, it’s about time I made things even,” Chuuya muttered, chewing on his bottom lip. This was really going to bother him. Dazai didn’t get a new haircut or anything, nor was he wearing any makeup as far as he could tell. What was the deal? 

Dazai cleared his throat and looked away. Chuuya grinned. 

He stood up from where he leaned against the island and began walking toward Dazai, savoring the way his ears grew steadily redder. Chuuya didn’t hesitate as he pushed his knees apart and settled between them, watching Dazai’s pale flush turn a glorious strawberry red. “You nervous?” he murmured, grinning. 

Despite being clearly flustered, though, Dazai didn’t balk. He arched a brow instead, saying: “酔っているに違いない、” as he ran his eyes all over Chuuya’s face. [“You must be drunk.”]

Chuuya didn’t know what that meant, nor did he care. He moved one of his hands to Dazai’s leg, scrutinizing his expression as he cupped the inside of his knee. 

The flutter of lashes was the only change, unsurprisingly. Chuuya had begun to realize that most of the time, Dazai had the best poker face of anyone Chuuya knew. (Until he was in the picture, that is). 

“You look really good tonight, y’know,” Chuuya muttered, leaning ever-so-slightly closer. He could still feel the alcohol, pleasantly warm in his gut, and the subsequent fuzziness in his brain. It was a nice combination, feeling warm and tingly all over like that. 

Dazai let out the softest breath, so slight that Chuuya wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been mere inches from him. He grinned. 

“もううんざりだ、” Dazai murmured, looking away again. [“You’re killing me.”] 

Chuuya couldn’t decipher that one either, but he decided it was time to have some fun. Without a moment of hesitation, he grabbed both of Dazai’s hands and pulled him right off the counter. 

Dazai yelped, stumbling straight into Chuuya as Chuuya ran back into the island, and he laughed as they attempted to right themselves, standing so close now they could kiss. 

Dazai’s eyes were slightly wider than usual, mouth barely parted, and he was staring again. 

Chuuya smiled and took his hand. “Let’s go dance.” 

He didn’t wait for a reply as he dragged Dazai out of the kitchen and out into the crowds, feeling the music thump, thump all around them. Dazai looked disoriented and confused, but Chuuya took both his hands and began to dance, moving with all kinds of nonsense as they were jostled and shouted over. 

“C’mon, it’s supposed to be fun!” he laughed. 

Dazai stared at him for a moment, looking lost or confused or dumbstruck or something, and then his eyes lit up and his lips melted into that easy grin of his. “君には時々驚かされるよ、” he said, but it was barely distinguishable over the music and Chuuya wouldn’t have understood it anyway. [“You amaze me sometimes.”]

Instead, he wrapped an arm around Dazai’s waist and lost himself in the moment, enjoying the peace from his constant stream of worries and grievances. Dazai was a warm presence (which was funny to Chuuya, since he was always so cold), and it was infinitely satisfying to have him so near like this. He didn’t seem so flustered now, and they danced and laughed and didn’t say a proper word to one another for who knew how long. Minutes? Days? Frankly, Chuuya didn’t care one bit. 

Eventually, as the buzz of the alcohol in his body began to fade and clarity started to cut the fog in his mind, Chuuya and Dazai stumbled out into the empty stairwell, laughing at their own ridiculousness and the ridiculousness of everyone else with their arms around each other’s waists and their feet tired from dancing. 

Chuuya shut his eyes as the quiet washed over him. He was sweaty and his hair was a mess, likely sticking up in all directions, and he likely smelled like alcohol and cigarette smoke. Even from inside, he could hear the cheers from the tour boats on the Seine, likely at the little Eiffel Tower show. He snorted—there would probably be about a hundred presentations about those for his and Dazai’s class next week. 

Chuuya paused. Wait. He turned to Dazai, who was leaning against the wall and, much to Chuuya’s surprise, was already looking at him. He paid that no mind, though, not right now. 

“Have I taken you to the Eiffel Tower yet?”

Dazai blinked. Chuuya could tell he recognized part of that, it was just putting the pieces together. After just a second or two, Dazai shook his head. 

“Holy fuck!” he exclaimed. “What have we been doing this whole time then? C’mon, we’re getting out of here.” He grabbed Dazai’s wrist and raced down the stairwell, ignoring his yelping and exclamations of confusion. 

They got down in no time and without a second to think, Chuuya began running down the sidewalk, still dragging Dazai behind him. He looked back to see the confusion on his face and laughed, shaking his head. “Better hurry up or we’ll miss it!” he called over his shoulder. Dazai’s hand was warm in his, and the moon was high in the sky as it cast the streets in liquid silver. 

“我々は何をしているのか？” Dazai shouted over the night wind winding through their hair, finally seeming to collect himself and catch up to Chuuya (which only took a moment thanks to his ridiculously long legs). [“What are we doing?”]

“Just trust me!” Chuuya exclaimed, unable to help his grin as they raced down the empty Paris streets. The apartment buildings towered over them, all ornate and gilded to some degree. The old cobblestone quickly gave way to dirt pathways lined with trees taller than the buildings they just left behind. Chuuya didn’t slow down, and neither did Dazai, and they ran through the green canopy like their lives depended on it, both of them laughing like they were children again. 

So close. Chuuya turned a hard left, causing Dazai to nearly run right into a lamppost, and that was when he finally allowed himself to slow down, breathing uneven and adrenaline pumping through every vein. He came to a full stop before the Tower, right in the middle of the wide-open grass field before it, and let out a long sigh. 

“There she is,” he murmured, unable to help his grin. “What a beauty.” 

On a normal day, the Eiffel Tower was crawling with throngs of people, tourists taking photos or little kids begging their parents to let them go to the very top or sometimes Parisians having lunch on the lawn. The tower loomed above them, a dull bronze shade and far larger than any picture can do justice. It was magnificent, of course, and Chuuya liked to believe it could not be fully appreciated until it was seen in person, but seeing it now was a new kind of exciting. 

Every inch of the Eiffel Tower, every nook and cranny and ornate carving, was lit up and glittering like a thousand tiny diamonds. 

It looked drowned in gold and precious stone, lighting up the entire city like a beacon as it flashed. The distant exclamations from the tourist boats on the Seine could barely be heard from where he and Dazai stood, able to see every sparkling inch. 

“How incredible is that?” Chuuya breathed. He felt just as starstruck as he’d been the first time he’d seen this. Despite all of the fame of the Eiffel Tower, he believed it a truly underrated piece of the world, under-appreciated for all that it was, the size and detail and incredible presence. It demanded attention. 

Chuuya turned to look at Dazai. He planned to say something about its history, or perhaps tease him some more, and… 

Oh.  

Dazai’s gaze was trained ahead on the view. His cheeks were ruddy from dancing, his hair mussed, and his lips were upturned into the slightest awestruck smile. The light of the Eiffel Tower turned streaks of his hair golden and made his eyes glow like they were the things made of diamonds instead, and as he was standing there falling in love with Paris, Chuuya was…

Well, fuck. He couldn’t say he didn’t see it coming.

“信じられないよ、” Dazai whispered, sounding dumbstruck. It made Chuuya smile. [“It’s incredible.”]

“Yeah. Pretty amazing, huh?” He chuckled, shaking his head and unsure whether he should praise or curse the universe for its sense of humor. Falling in love not only in Paris, the City of Love, but right in front of the Eiffel Tower, one of the many symbols of the city and perhaps the most iconic of them all. How much cheesier could it get? 

Chuuya looked back at Dazai and found his gaze already on him. “ありがとう、 Chuuya,” he said with that soft smile still on his face, and Chuuya found it difficult to ignore the beating of his heart against his chest at the sight of him lit up in gold like that. [“Thank you, Chuuya.”] 

“It’s nothing,” he breathed. “Should’ve done it ages ago.” 

Dazai blinked, looking a bit surprised. “理解できたかい？” he asked. [“Did you understand that?”]

As expected, Chuuya was lost again. “I have no idea what you’re saying,” was all he could say, letting out the slightest chuckle. 

Dazai shook his head, laughing quietly, and suddenly they were descending into a fit of giggles in front of the sparkling Eiffel Tower in the middle of the night, filling the Paris air with their utter ridiculousness, because their entire situation was ridiculous. 

Chuuya hadn’t let go of Dazai once since they left Higuchi’s apartment, and their fingers were entwined loosely now as their laughter faded into wide, starstruck smiles. It was cold, which Chuuya knew because the breeze nipped at his ears and he could see his breath, but everything else in him buzzed with warmth. It was a perfect night. 

A slight tugging on his hand had Chuuya shaking himself from his thoughts, and he looked over to meet Dazai’s gaze. “What?” he asked quietly, unable to stifle his smile. Dazai looked… he was beautiful. 

Dazai didn’t say anything for a moment, simply flitting his eyes about Chuuya’s face in silence. Like he was committing it to memory. 

Chuuya waited patiently while Dazai continued whatever he was doing. He watched his lashes flutter. He watched his eyes glitter. He watched the corners of his lips quirk up, only barely noticeable, before he said: 

“I’m in love with you.” 

Chuuya froze. 

The words sounded clunky and unfamiliar, heavily accented and not emphasized in every right place, but…

Chuuya clasped a hand over his mouth, and then he laughed. 

He couldn’t help the overwhelming wave of joy, of relief, of a thousand things that washed over him as he laughed, because they truly were the biggest idiots on the planet, weren’t they? Because Dazai beat him to the exact confession he knew he was about to let slip in the very same fashion, speaking unfamiliar words he barely knew in a language he only just begun learning when he was already far more familiar with Dazai’s—his body language, his expressions, his tone. 

Chuuya could hardly breathe as he clutched his stomach, thinking about the fact that all it took was a school project for them to get to this point despite themselves and everything around them. 

He took deep, gasping breaths as he tried to calm himself down, vaguely noting that Dazai was holding his shoulders and looking both concerned and confused. 

“Sorry,” he gasped, shaking his head and attempting to stand up straight. He felt light like clouds on a bluebird day, every inch of him thrumming with energy. “Sorry, I—” 

“楽しませてくれて嬉しいよ、” Dazai huffed, helping him upright before immediately dropping his hands. [“I’m glad you’re amused.”] 

“Hey—"

“とても素敵でした、中也、ありがとう、でもそろそろ時間だと思うのですが —" [“This was very lovely, Chuuya, thank you, but I think it's time—”]

“Osamu.” 

Dazai paused at that and Chuuya saw his eyes widen slightly. 

He reached out and cupped Dazai’s face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones and forcing him to look at him. “僕も君に恋をしているんだ、” he said firmly, intentionally, with the utmost feeling despite his clunky pronunciation. His Japanese professor hadn't exactly gone over how to say stuff like 'I love you' just yet.“You just beat me to it.” [“I’m in love with you too.”]

Dazai’s eyes widened further, his lips parted, and he looked completely dumbstruck for lack of a better word. He didn’t say anything, and Chuuya couldn’t help but chuckle again, shaking his head and reveling in the inexplicably good feeling spreading through his chest like honey. 

“We’re so stupid,” he laughed, pushing Dazai’s stray curls from his face. “Hey, can I kiss you?” 

Dazai blinked, looking confused, then surprised, and then his expression turned disgustingly smug. “なんと恥ずかしいことだろう、” he said with a smirk, leaning forward until they were nose-to-nose. “中也は本当に私のことをそんなに好きなの？” [“How embarrassing. Chuuya truly likes me that much?”]

Chuuya rolled his eyes, twined a hand into Dazai’s hair, and crashed their lips together. 

Dazai’s hands went to his waist, gripping the fabric of his jacket as Chuuya cupped his haw with one hand and tugged on his hair with the other, earning a quiet groan from Dazai. The kiss was slow, though, an exploration of one another rather than something desperate and feverish. Chuuya could not help but think that this was infinitely better than anything he could have dreamt up. 

He didn’t know how long they stayed there. Minutes, maybe? Surely not longer than a day. 

Chuuya pulled away, grinning and putting a finger to Dazai’s lips when he leaned forward again. He didn’t say anything for a moment and simply took Dazai in, him and all the shimmering gold. How did they wait this long? Chuuya should have kissed him ages ago. 

“I hate you,” Chuuya told him, smiling and disgustingly fond. 

Dazai grinned and leaned forward to press another kiss to his lips. “No you don’t,” he murmured, and they kissed with the moon high in the Paris sky, watching over the city as the Eiffel Tower glittered behind them. 

Chapter Text

“Oh, mon Dieu,” Chuuya muttered, snapping Dazai out of his reverie. His lips were still tingling, his hands still gripping the back of Chuuya’s jacket, and the Eiffel Tower was still glittering beside them in all its over-the-top glory. He felt like a god. [“Oh my god.”]

Dazai frowned. “Hm?”

“Le projet,” he whispered, horrified. [“The project.”]

Dazai stared at him for a good five seconds, and then he felt all the color leave his face. “Shit.” 

Chuuya gripped his wrist before he could say anything else, and suddenly they were racing back the way they’d come, down the moonlit Paris sidewalks which were far too thin for Dazai’s liking. 

Not that he could think about that right now, when Chuuya had told him he loved him and they kissed in front of the Eiffel Tower like every cheesy rom-com he’d ever heard of. 

“Dépêche-toi, idiot!” Chuuya called over his shoulder, and Dazai could hear the smile in his voice. “Mets tes longues jambes à contribution, veux-tu?” [“Hurry up, idiot! Put those long legs to use, would you?”]

“Forgive me if I’m not used to so much exercise in one day,” Dazai huffed, but he continued to chase after Chuuya with their hands intertwined, and time seemed to twist and loop around itself after that. Dazai had no idea how long it took for them to arrive back on campus, just before Chuuya dragged him up a preposterous amount of stairs and stopped in front of door A51. 

“Nous sommes tellement stupides,” Chuuya muttered as he unlocked it, shaking his head and chuckling despite it. [“We’re so stupid.”]

Dazai didn’t know a few of those words, but he knew nous and could easily figure out the rest. “We were occupied,” he replied, and just because he could, he reached over and pressed a quick kiss to Chuuya’s cheek. 

To his delight, Chuuya’s ears became slightly redder. 

Despite all Dazai might have imagined about the space Chuuya lived in, what he found was not what he had expected. Things were relatively neat for any college student and especially for someone so hotheaded as Chuuya. There were a few miscellaneous items on tables and hanging out of drawers—records, hoodies, hair ties, bracelets—but it was much more put together than Dazai had imagined. 

Regrettably, Chuuya gave him no time to look around. The moment they stepped inside, he was being dragged into a little nook that seemed to serve as Chuuya’s bedroom. He immediately noticed the collection of band posters on the wall: Alice in Chains, like Chuuya’s T-shirt, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, AC/DC, Van Halen, Aerosmith, and Audioslave were all there in varying degrees of blue, red, or black. He liked grunge, then. And 70s rock. Somehow, Dazai thought that made sense. 

“Hé, arrête de fixer et ramène tes cul ici.” Chuuya’s voice wrenched him from his thoughts and he blinked, finding Chuuya seated on his bed with his laptop in his lap. [“Hey, stop staring and get your ass over here.”]

The next few hours were spent building a PowerPoint on the Eiffel Tower. It was obviously their best bet since at least half the class would be doing the same thing so hopefully, their professor would get so sick of it that she would stop paying attention and just give everyone an A. 

And Dazai could safely assume that he had been at least a little bit in love with Chuuya since the second he saw him, but now he knew he was past the point of no return because Chuuya made the project fun. They laughed at stupid things and took far too long to do very simple tasks, but it was more fun doing schoolwork than Dazai had ever had. 

And oh, Chuuya was lovely when he laughed. 

“C'est ridicule! Sommes-nous censés savoir ce que cela signifie? Je t’emmerde!” he exclaimed, looking disbelieving at the article in front of them with the widest grin on his face. [“That’s ridiculous! Are we supposed to know what that even means? Fuck you!”]

“Tsk tsk, that’s not very nice, Chuuya.” Dazai was just assuming, of course, but he did catch the ‘fuck you’ at the end thanks to Higuchi’s teachings. 

“Je t'emmerde aussi!” [“Fuck you too!”]

It took them nearly three hours of screwing around, panicking, and dedicating themselves to their research before they finally scrapped together something presentable (literally). It was choppy and disorganized, sure, but at this point, they were both too tired to care. 

Dazai flopped backward onto Chuuya’s tiny bed, staring up at the indecipherable ceiling as Chuuya sighed from next to him and pushed his red curls out of his face. “Dieu merci que est terminé.” [“Thank god that’s over.”]

Dazai chuckled. He understood the sentiment. “We’re quite the superstars. Today has been quite the day.” 

He felt Chuuya’s gaze on him and looked over to meet his eyes. The moonlight trickling in through the window made his blue eye look like molten silver and lit up the edges of his hair in a similar fashion. He looked like some kind of angel, or perhaps a magical faerie of some kind. Any sort of ethereal being, he supposed, as long as it wasn’t an elf. They were far too tall. 

“Hey, Chuuya?”

“Hm?”  

“Can I draw you?” 

It was a question Dazai wanted to ask for months now, but the moment had never been quite right. He and Chuuya were always doing something, running around Paris under the pretense of project research and there was hardly a moment of stillness between the two of them. 

Now, though, everything felt just right. 

He saw Chuuya’s brows furrow, perhaps trying to decipher the sentence, and Dazai couldn’t help but chuckle. They truly had just confessed their love for each other hours ago and still couldn’t properly talk to one another. 

He held up his flat palm and fashioned his other hand as if he were holding a pencil, scribbling imaginary lines for a second before pointing directly at Chuuya. 

It only took him a moment to understand, and Dazai delighted in the genuine surprise that overtook his expression. It was often the other way around with the two of them, and Dazai figured it was about time he started getting his revenge. 

Perhaps he’d have to ask Chuuya to pose for him in the nude sometime. 

“D'accord,” Chuuya breathed. [“Okay.”]

That was a word Dazai knew from his class. He smiled and pulled out the little notebook and pencil set he kept in his pocket—he never left home without them. Chuuya leaned back against the wall, one leg bent in front of him on the bed and the other serving to prop up his arm on his knee. It was a relaxed pose and Dazai liked it very much, so all he asked of Chuuya was that he tilt his head to the side slightly. 

Dazai started with Chuuya’s legs. His pants were looser around his ankles and calves, but when he was seated like this, they became very tight around his thighs. Dazai had to remind himself to stay focused as he added the wrinkles of the fabric. 

Silence settled over them after that. Chuuya was a very impressive model, sitting perfectly still with the exception of his lashes fluttering now and again, and Dazai felt himself slip into what could only be called a Zone. It was not a familiar experience, but with Chuuya it happened so naturally he hardly noticed. One moment, he could hear the sound of thunder overhead and the beginnings of rain pattering on the roof, the rustle of his shirt fabric when he moved his arm, and the next moment he didn’t hear anything but the scratch of his pencil and the sound of Chuuya’s steady breathing. 

Dazai hadn’t noticed this until just now, but one of Chuuya’s shoes had apparently been discarded by the door while the other was still firmly on his foot, a well-worn black Converse shie. He chuckled. 

“Quoi?” [“What?”]

Dazai looked up and found Chuuya watching him with a faint smile, looking both confused and amused. He studied his face for a moment, the way the light hit it just so, the way he found himself drowning in those features, and then he blinked and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, chuckling when Chuuya huffed. 

After he finished his bottom half, Dazai began with the shirt. Chuuya had discarded his jacket, so he was left in his holey Alice in Chains tee. Dazai had to admit that it was terribly sexy, him sitting there in a loose shirt and loose jeans (except where they hugged his delicious thighs) and his hair cascading down one shoulder like an autumn river. He didn’t think there was a finer sight in all the world. 

Dazai paid special attention to the design on the front of the shirt—this would not be his most detailed drawing, but he would not have it be chicken scratch either. This was Chuuya, after all. 

The folds and wrinkles in the fabric were easy enough since most of them were hidden by the low lighting, and then Dazai moved on to Chuuya’s arms. 

Chuuya’s physicality was deceptive, Dazai thought. He was such a small person so one would assume he was also very slender, but that was hardly the case. The lean muscle of his arms was highlighted by the low moon, casting ripples each time he shifted even slightly. Dazai did his best to capture it, he truly did, but sometimes some things simply weren’t meant to be preserved on a stagnant page. 

Still, Dazai thought he’d like to spend the rest of his life trying. 

“You... you're very pretty, Chuuya,” he murmured, moving on to the hands. Chuuya had lovely hands, rough and calloused and very different from his own pianist fingers. He made sure to capture their exact likeness. 

He doubted Chuuya understood him, but he apparently gleaned the sentiment enough to flush a pale pink. Dazai smiled. 

He then began on Chuuya’s collarbones, his broad shoulders, his neck, all the way up to his face. This was where he started to worry he would not do Chuuya’s beauty proper justice. Especially without any color, he could not capture the way the moonlight reflected from his eyes or lit up his proud cheekbones in such a soft silver, and that was a terrible crime. 

Dazai huffed. “You are a terrible model, slug, do you know that? You’re making this far more difficult than I’d like it.” 

Chuuya narrowed his eyes. 

It was difficult to do this when so much of Chuuya’s face was in shadow. Dazai scooted closer on the bed, enough that their knees were knocking and they could share breath. He analyzed every inch of Chuuya’s face, every crease and dive, every proud peak. Chuuya’s eyes followed him, burning into his skin, but Dazai didn’t mind. For the first time in a long while, he felt remarkably grounded while he worked. 

Chuuya’s face came together surprisingly neatly on the page. It was not in the detail Dazai would like to do one day, but for now, it would do. Once he was at least half-satisfied with it, he moved on to the untamable mane that was Chuuya’s hair, copper curls dipped in silver. 

Most of the time, the hair Dazai drew was very straight and plain, so figuring this out was a bit of a challenge. It took him a few tries to get something that truly resembled the real thing, but when he looked to Chuuya and back at it, he was surprised by how close it truly was. Perhaps he was not so out of practice as he thought. 

“As tu fini?” Chuuya asked softly, and Dazai hummed as he studied the page. Never as ethereal as the real thing, but he supposed it would do. [“Are you done?”]

He handed Chuuya the page, who moved for the first time in many long minutes to grab it. Dazai studied his expression as his eyes flitted over the page, scrutinizing every inch, but he was not prepared for the sudden wide smile that overtook Chuuya’s face. 

“C'est incroyable,” he muttered, shaking his head before looking up, and Dazai nearly lost his breath at the sheer joy he saw there. “Tu es incroyable.” [“That’s incredible. You’re incredible.”]

Dazai scoffed at that. “This is hardly—“

“Osamu.”  

He shuddered at the sound of his name on Chuuya’s lips.

Chuuya leaned forward, cupping his cheek with one hand and holding the drawing with the other, and smiled. “Merci.” [“Thank you.”] 

That was a word Dazai knew. He stared for a moment though, momentarily tongue-tied before he could bring himself to speak. “It’s nothing,” he breathed, completely and utterly hopeless. 

Chuuya grinned and captured his lips in a kiss. 

It surprised him, but Dazai wasted no time in dropping his pencil and notebook to twine his hands about Chuuya’s waist. Their kiss at the Eiffel Tower was gentler, sweetened by the disgusting sappiness of the moment and the fact that nothing had felt real until after the fact, but this was different. It was more intense, almost desperate, and Dazai found himself helping Chuuya pull off his shirt before he could think. 

Not that it mattered. He couldn’t expect himself to be anything but dizzy and drowning in the feeling of Chuuya’s lips against his. 

Dazai ran his hands over the newly exposed skin while Chuuya began leaving marks along his neck, letting out a low noise when he felt the gentle scrape of teeth just over his pulse point. It only took another moment before Chuuya was tugging Dazai’s own shirt off and discarding it somewhere before running his hands over Dazai’s chest, his ribcage, his back. 

“Magnifique,” he murmured, almost to himself, before Dazai pulled him in for another desperate kiss. [“Beautiful.”] 

Dazai hummed in reply, and as the minutes ticked by, they tangled themselves together like their bodies were already intimately familiar. It was hungry and needy and effortlessly passionate in a way Dazai had not yet experienced, and he felt like he was doing everything for the first time again with the way his gut felt pleasantly warm and his blood sang. 

It was as if they had known each other all their lives. 

***

“Osamu. Hé, Osamu. Osamu!” [“Hey.”]

Dazai’s eyes snapped open and he immediately groaned at the sunlight that assaulted him. He threw his arm over his eyes and turned away from it and from Chuuya’s hands, which gripped his other arm and shook it ferociously. “You can't let me get even a lick of sleep, can you? That’s cruel, you know, especially considering—“

He cut himself off. Chuuya’s hands vanished. 

“We have school,” he whispered. 

Chuuya nodded. 

Dazai leaped from the bed, uncaring that he just had to wear his clothes from last night, stole Chuuya’s toothbrush, and splashed his face with water before stumbling out to where Chuuya was frantically making a pot of coffee, wearing nothing but his boxers. 

Just because, Dazai stole a kiss from him on his way to find his shoes, delighting in the surprised little mmph! Chuuya let out. “You’re unfairly sexy in the morning, you know that?” he called over his shoulder. It was a true test of his willpower to be able to see those delicious abs so soon after waking up and right before they had to be in class. Dazai huffed at the unfairness of the situation. 

“Tu pourras flirter avec moi plus tard, abruti,” was Chuuya’s reply. [“You can flirt with me later, dumbass.”]

Dazai attempted to scour the little kitchen space for any sugar to put in his coffee (it took him a good two or three minutes because there was absolutely no organization to be seen), and by the time he finally found some, Chuuya was already stumbling out fully dressed (unfortunately) and looking very presentable. 

Dazai blinked. “How did you do that so fast?” 

Chuuya frowned. “Hm?” He looked down at himself. “Quoi?” [“What?”]

He was dressed in his usual fashion and glittering with all kinds of jewelry as if he wasn’t practically naked just minutes ago. 

Dazai shook his head and decided it would be a waste of time to try and understand such sorcery. “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. 

As luck would have it, their French History class was also the closest class to Chuuya’s dorm room. They raced downstairs as quickly as they could (which was faster for Dazai than for Chuuya, amusingly), and when they threw open the classroom door, the first student to present had barely opened his mouth. 

All heads turned to them, naturally, but Dazai ignored that and slipped into his seat beside Chuuya, conveniently close to the door. He tried very, very hard to stifle his laughter. 

As expected, nearly half the presentations were about the Eiffel Tower, and Dazai could hardly contain his glee at the fact that they were going third to last. They would be the nail in the coffin to drive home their professor’s clear boredom after hearing the same five facts spit back at her, but they wouldn’t linger in her mind too long to make her look close. He couldn’t have asked for anything better. 

“So, in conclusion, the Eiffel Tower was incredibly influential by showcasing French industrial ingenuity and reinstating pride in the country.” 

The class applauded as they took their seats and Dazai let out a short, relieved sigh. Presentations were such a drag. 

Chuuya held up his fist as they sat down, sporting a toothy grin. His hair was slightly more unruly than usual, one of his necklaces flipped around, his collar crooked. 

Dazai bumped his fist and grinned back. 

***

Ever since Dazai drew Chuuya that rainy night, he hadn’t stopped pestering him. Draw this, he would say when he pointed to a strange-looking flower growing up from the cobblestone road. Draw them, he would say and gesture to the old couple sitting on the bank of the Seine, humming an old tune only they now knew. Draw me, he said often. 

And Dazai did. The months passed, fall gave way to winter, the semester wore on, and he filled tens of hundreds of pages with Chuuya. A quick sketch while they ate lunch at a cafe, a detailed portrait he made Chuuya sit for hours for, a simple eye or hand on the corner of an unimportant page. It became muscle memory, tracing those sharp angles and planes onto paper. He usually just used whatever pencil he had on hand, but then Chuuya bought him a far-too-nice set of charcoal and he started using that, too. He took up pastels again after that, and then watercolor, and then he painted a large portrait of Chuuya in acrylic, doing his very best to capture every lick of fire in his hair and every fleck of gold in his eyes. 

Then, he started taking art classes. Entry level at first, since everything he knew was what he figured out for himself, but that got boring and he was given permission to join the advanced classes. He took live drawing and graphic design and studio art and even tried photography, though he didn’t find that nearly as interesting. And when he was finished, he would find Chuuya and blab to him about everything he had learned, all he had seen and done and screwed up, and Chuuya would laugh and kiss him senseless, whispering sweet French nothings in his ear. 

Eventually, he began to understand those French nothings, too. Taking French I was complicated and very confusing, but Dazai had the best memory of anyone he knew and got the hang of things quickly after that. He started French II and used Chuuya as his personal practice machine who, in turn, used Dazai as a Japanese practice machine. It was clunky for them both, learning to speak to each other that way, but they understood each other so well without words that they hardly ever needed them. Dazai knew what Chuuya was thinking in just one glance, or could at least come up with a few educated guesses. 

He had art back in his life. He had Paris. He had Chuuya. Only a year gone, and there was little more Dazai could ask for. 

“So… you’re not coming back with us?” 

He shook his head, ripping off another piece of the baguette. “I’ll stay one more year, I think.” 

“Why’s that?” 

Dazai let out a short breath. “I’ve decided to enter the art program.” 

Yosano looked surprised for just a moment, and then her expression melted into a warm, wide smile. “I’m glad to hear it.” 

He hummed. 

“And I’m guessing Chuuya had absolutely nothing to do with this?” she added, and though Dazai was intentionally avoiding looking at her, he could imagine the smug smirk she was wearing without a problem. 

She was correct, of course. Dazai had finally convinced Chuuya to sit nude for him, and after he finished and Chuuya had drawn him close, hands on his collar and lips only a breath from his, he’d whispered so softly: “Be an artist.” 

It had shocked him into stillness for a moment, because for a moment he could actually see it, and then he gave Chuuya a smile and a wink. "Only if you'll model for me." 

Chuuya had smirked at him, lips curled up in that devastating heartbreaker grin, and he hummed: "After I get booked for Chanel." 

And really, what on Earth could Dazai say to that?

“Absolutely not,” he replied, popping a slice of gooey brie onto his bread and giving Yosano a disgustingly pleasant smile. 

She only laughed. “I get it. Hey, and listen—“ she cut herself off and Dazai was surprised by the feeling of a hand gripping his. He looked up to find Yosano watching him with that warm look back on her face and that constant playful glint in her eyes. “I’m happy for you. I really am.” 

Dazai allowed himself a rare gentle smile. “Thank you, Akiko.” He leaned back and ripped off a bit of his bread, letting out a long sigh. “Frankly, I think you’re the only one.” 

“Oh?” 

“Your girlfriend and her brother still hate me,” he whined, lolling his head backward. Perhaps hate was too strong of a word in Kouyou’s case, but certainly not for Verlaine. Every time they had dinner together or ran into each other in a park, Dazai felt like he was being eyed by a giant mother hen with the urge and the means to pluck out his eyes and feed them to him through his ears. 

Yosano laughed at that like the cruel person she was. “They’ll come around eventually. It took me a while to get Verlaine to warm up to me too, y’know.” 

“How long was that?” 

“Eh. Three or four years.” 

Dazai groaned. 

“Don’t be such a baby! If I were him, I’d hate you too.” 

“That’s very reassuring, thank you.” 

“Anytime, hon.” 

They were not sentimental people, so they spent the rest of their last lunch date (for now) talking about the future. Yosano would go back to Yokohama in a few days and graduate so she could go even more broke on even more medical school. She would go into orthopedic surgery and maybe, when she made enough money to pay back all her debts and got tired of fixing up people’s bones, she would become a therapist and work with jaded teenagers like she used to be. She would come and see Kouyou whenever she wanted, and they would terrorize Verlaine together. She would terrorize him and Chuuya, too. 

Dazai had some trouble admitting it at first, but he wanted to change his degree and go into art. He would stay in Paris for as long as Chuuya would let him, and he would draw and paint and starve like all the greats did. Chuuya would become a model like he always wanted and he would be Dazai’s muse (whether he liked it or not). He would visit Yokohama often and take Yosano out to a park or something since they’d both be too broke for anything else. He may or may not live a long time, but he would live a lot. 

“Thank god I convinced you to do this, huh?” Yosano swirled her glass of wine around, watching the passersby from their little table nestled amongst all the others at the little cafe. ”You’d probably be dead in a ditch somewhere otherwise.” 

Dazai threw a piece of bread at her and rolled his eyes. He couldn’t stifle his smile. “Yeah. Whatever.” 

***

The raindrops pitter-pattered on the roof as Dazai stared up at the ceiling, running his fingers through Chuuya’s hair. It was too dark to see anything now, but he could feel the steady rise and fall of Chuuya’s chest and the ghost of his breath on his collar. 

“Alors tu as vraiment décidé de rester, hein?” [“So you really decided to stay, huh?”]

Dazai hummed. “I couldn’t leave my dear slug to suffer all by his lonesome, now, could I?” 

That earned him a playful slap on the shoulder and he laughed, pressing it into Chuuya’s hair. 

“So cruel,” he murmured. “Perhaps I shouldn’t stick around after all.” 

Chuuya snorted. “Bon. Comme ça, je n'ai pas besoin de voir ton stupide cul tout le temps.” [“Good. Then I don't have to see your stupid ass all the time.”] 

“Oh, Chuuya, you know I can’t focus on anything when you talk like that,” Dazai groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes and ignoring the feeling he got that Chuuya was certainly smirking at him with that awful glint in his eyes, the one that meant he was about to be tortured. 

“Je t'aime, tu sais,” is what he heard instead, and Dazai removed his arm to find Chuuya watching him with a crooked, pretty smile. [“I love you, y’know.”]

He smiled. “Je t'aime aussi, chéri.” [“I love you too, darling.”]

***

The day Dazai said goodbye to his friends was bittersweet.

There were smiles all around, warm goodbyes and warmer embraces. As expected, there were no tears from Ranpo or Yosano, but Atsushi was an absolute mess as he clung to Dazai like a child to his father. 

“I’m gonna miss you so much!” he sobbed, clutching the back of his shirt and soaking his shoulder with tears. “It’s not gonna be the same without you, Dazai, it’s just not!”

“I’m not going off to the gallows, Atsushi,” Dazai chuckled, ruffling his hair. “You’ll see me in a few months.” 

“You promise you’ll call?” 

“Every day if you like.” 

Atsushi nodded and sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve as Kunikida took his place. He set his hand on his shoulder and gave him a very stern look, like some sort of condescending mother. “Don’t make any more stupid decisions than you already do,” he said seriously. “Don’t burn down the dorms. Don’t drown in the Seine. Don’t fall off the Eiffel Tower.” 

“No promises, Kunikida,” Dazai said with a wink. Kunikida rolled his eyes, but then he gripped Dazai’s shoulders and pulled him into a quick, tight hug. 

“Call,” was all he said, and Dazai hid his smile in his shoulder. 

Yosano bid her farewells to Kouyou and Verlaine, giving them each a kiss on the cheek before bending Kouyou into a sweeping dip and practically devouring her for a few uncomfortable moments. She ruffled Chuuya’s hair, much to his dismay, and promised him she’d miss him. She ruffled Dazai’s hair too, and when she smiled, it was like pure, toothy sunshine. 

“I won’t miss you though, idiot.” 

Dazai bobbed his head and grinned. “The feeling is mutual.” 

She winked, blew him a kiss, and then kissed Kouyou one last time. “Alright everyone, we’re gonna be left behind if we don’t leave now!”

The troupe gathered up any last-minute items and began filing out, shouting their goodbyes over their shoulders while Verlaine, Kouyou, Chuuya, and Dazai waved them off. Yosano made sure Atsushi had everything, being the scatterbrain that he was, and after everyone had made it through, she turned around quick for one last word. 

“Au revoir mes amours!” [“Goodbye my loves!”]

Kouyou laughed, and Dazai rolled his eyes, and they all waved back. “Au revoir!” [“Goodbye!”]

She disappeared down the hall and then it was just the four of them standing in the lobby, early morning sunlight streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

An arm twined around his waist, and then Chuuya stepped in front of him and drew them close, wearing that devastating heartbreaker smile. “Je suppose qu'il est temps d'aller en classe,” he hummed, tilting his head to the side. [“I guess it's time for class.”]

Dazai could feel the phantom hand cramps already forming and groaned. “Don’t remind me.” 

Chuuya laughed, retracting his arms from around Dazai’s waist and intertwining their fingers instead. Dazai ignored the feeling of Kouyou and Verlaine’s eyes on them, ignored the tiredness behind his eyelids and the bittersweet feeling of goodbyes in his throat. 

He ignored it all and tugged Chuuya closer, smiling at the glittering Paris before them. 

Chapter Text

Six Years Later

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me today, Dazai, it’s a pleasure.” 

Dazai’s smile was amicable as ever. “The pleasure is mine, Sasaki. Thank you for having me.” 

The interviewer, a well-known and well-liked young woman named Sasaki, wasted no time. “Firstly, I would like to ask you how it feels to be one of the most famous artists of the current time. How have things changed for you over the past few years?”

Dazai chuckled—this was always the first question and he was always well-prepared for it. “I am very grateful to be able to make money doing what I love, and the endless support from the art community is a far cry from my starving artist days. Being able to share my craft with the rest of the world is a pleasure and a privilege.” 

Sasaki arched a brow. “Starving artist days? What were those like?” 

“Well, getting recognition in the art industry is very tricky, even with good connections. Luckily, I had the fortune of studying in one of the art capitals of the world, and that was a great asset in launching my career.” 

“Yes, it’s quite well-known that you spent over two years here in Paris studying at Sorbonne University, is that right?” 

Dazai smiled. “It is.” 

“And did you know early on that you wanted to do art full-time or was that a choice you made later in your life?” 

He recalled the piles of old sketchbooks in his childhood room, stacked on his desk and under his bed. The few he brought with him to college in Yokohama, and how their pages began to grow more and more dusty. How he went to Paris, and suddenly he was going through a book a week. 

“It was not something I truly decided to pursue until a very important person in my life told me I should,” Dazai admitted with a shrug. “I had intended to go into Literature.” 

“An important person?” Sasaki repeated, looking quite pleased with herself. “And might this important person have anything to do with a recurring mystery figure in many of your works—at least two-thirds of what is available to the public? It is quite the mystery in the art community and it seems none have been able to solve it yet.” 

Ah. Dazai had never enjoyed interviews very much, but he would be lying if he said this part was never fun. “Indeed it is,” he agreed, bobbing his head and trying to stifle his laughter as he saw Sasaki’s confident expression morph into something slightly more peeved. 

“Do you have anything to say to the fans who have gone digging and come up empty?” she added, terribly unsubtle. 

Dazai hummed. “They are certainly very dedicated. I’m quite impressed by the determination.” 

Another not-answer and Sasaki was clearly displeased. “There are hundreds of thousands of theories as to who this muse of yours is, as I’m sure you’re aware. The most popular theory proposes Nakahara Chuuya, both for its supporters and equal number of cynics," she began, staring him down as if she were analyzing every twitch and blink for a giveaway. "Given your history—being schoolmates in Paris, launching your careers around the same time, your many collaborations, and… very public rivalry—what do you have to say about that?” 

Dazai snorted. 

Sasaki blinked. “Are you alright?” 

“My apologies,” he replied, attempting to stifle his laughter behind a poor rendition of a cough. He could imagine exactly how Chuuya was reacting to that right now, eyes bright and grin wide as he swirled a glass of overpriced wine. He would be recalling all that bickering they did—and still do—in front of the cameras just for the hell of it. He would be looking very amused, and if Dazai were there, he’d have kissed him senseless. 

Sasaki waited patiently for him to collect himself, one brow arched. Dazai didn’t think she looked very amused. “Did I say something funny?” 

“Quite,” Dazai replied, unable to completely swallow his grin. “I… I would never dedicate so much of my art—my life—to someone like Nakahara Chuuya.” He said it with such disbelief, such delight, that he nearly burst into laughter again. Chuuya would surely tease him about that when he got home. 

“I see,” Sasaki said curtly, clearly disappointed by this lack of new information. Such gossips, these people. “Well, that is all the time we have today. It was a pleasure to speak with you, Dazai.” 

Dazai leaned over to shake her outstretched hand and gave her his best smile, teeth and all. It was not a mockery, not one bit. “And you as well, Miss Sasaki. I do hope you found what you came for.” 

Her eyes widened slightly and her nostrils flared, just before someone yelled “Cut!” and the cameras were put to rest. Dazai stood, expression unwavering, and gave the gossipmonger a quick wink before he turned on his heel and took his leave. 

There was a car waiting for him when he escaped the building, swatting pesky reporters away as they followed him out. The driver was a kind young lady and knew just where to take him, making no small talk and only giving him a sympathetic smile when he shut the car door. He always preferred to walk, but that would have meant running from reporters all the way home and he didn’t have the cardiovascular strength for that. 

The second he was free from the prying eyes, Dazai pulled his phone from his back pocket and dialed a very familiar number, listening to it ring only twice before his call was answered. 

“Dazai!” Atsushi exclaimed on the other end. 

Dazai couldn’t help but smile. “Hi, Atsushi. I’m sorry I missed your call—I was in a very serious interrogation. I feared for my life, it was so awful.” 

Atsushi, like the sweetheart he was, sounded genuinely concerned when he said: “Oh, I’m sorry for bothering you! If now’s not a good time, I can always call you later.” 

Dazai chuckled. “You’re never bothering me, Atsushi, you know that.” 

He could envision the sheepish smile. “If you say so. I just wanted to say hi and see how things were going over there! It’s been a while since we’ve seen you.” 

“Well, I actually wanted to talk to you about that.” 

“Uh oh. Is something wrong?” 

“Far from it. I can’t talk for long, though—I’m in a bit of a rush to get home because there’s lots to pack before Chuuya and I leave.” 

“Leave? For where?” 

Dazai smiled. “We have a flight to Yokohama first thing tomorrow.” 

He could hear Atsushi’s gasp as well as exclamations from people in the background, just before some scuffling and then a new voice on the phone. “You decide to drop this on us now? What happened to giving people notice for things like this, Dazai?” 

Dazai huffed. “I thought you’d be more pleased, Kunikida!” 

“I’ll have to restock on Aspirin,” he murmured, sounding far away before the phone seemed to be handed off again. 

“You little shit,” Yosano laughed. “Can’t wait to see you both.” 

"Speak for yourself," was a clipped comment in the background and Dazai grinned. 

"Paul, we're family!" he chirped. "You needn't be so cruel." 

"Someone needs to," he heard Kouyou say, closer to the phone. 

He pouted. "Chuuya does it enough as it is, you know." 

"Good."

Before Dazai could reply, he heard jostling over the phone followed by a few background comments, and then Atsushi's voice over the line. “We can’t wait, Dazai!” he exclaimed. 

Dazai chuckled, watching his apartment come into view. “I’ll see you all soon,” he replied, chuckling at the chorus of goodbyes before he hung up. 

He thanked the driver for her trouble, grabbed his bag, and made his way up to the apartment building, savoring the feeling of the cool night breeze in his hair. 

He made his way up to the top floor, unlocking the door with his very, very old key. “I’m home!” he called out when he shut the door behind him, shucking off his trench coat and shoes. The sun had just gone down and because Chuuya had a passionate hatred for overhead lighting, the hundreds of thousands of millions of lamps they owned lit everything up in a soft orange. 

Chuuya warned him that he may be called out for an emergency reshoot with Chanel today since, apparently, there were a few problems with the cameras last time and some of the photos may not have turned out well enough. How Chanel was having problems with their cameras was beyond him, but he didn’t question it. 

Dazai let out a long sigh and immediately made for the kitchen. (An entire day drowning in interviews and not one person seemed to recall that humans do, in fact, require food from time to time). Luckily, Chuuya was a heaven-sent god and Dazai could already feel some of the day's tension leave him when he saw the white box on the countertop with the name of their local patisserie printed on the top. 

Dazai couldn't help but smile when he spotted the little notebook as well, half-hidden beneath the box. The pages were more ink than paper by now, but they had become experts in working with mere centimeters of space. Dazai flipped to the very back, brushing his thumb along the edge of the back cover. It was worn from nearly six years of consistent use, the pages bent and rippled along the sides and the contents near-indecipherable by now. The Monet painting on the cover had held up surprisingly well, though, even if the pink of the water lilies had faded a bit and the rich blues and greens of the water were paler now. 

The drawing Chuuya left him was scribbled on the top corner of the inside back cover, so tiny it was barely visible. Dazai could make out a stick figure under a lumpy showerhead, though, and something else next to it that looked suspiciously like a head of broccoli. 

Dazai chuckled. Chuuya should know better than to think he would eat a vegetable of his own accord. 

He opened the white box next and smelled the sweet butter and chocolate of the Pain Au Chocolat before he even saw it. In theory, Dazai supposed he should eat slowly to savor it, but his growling stomach disagreed and he bit half of it off almost immediately, letting out a long sigh through his nose. Their local patisserie was the best in Paris, in his opinion, and there was nothing better than a Pain Au Chocolat after a long day of tormenting interviewers and lying to the public about his personal relationships. The dessert was the perfect balance between thin, flaky pastry and the thick, gooey chocolate cream, and the ungodly amount of butter made each bite melt deliciously on his tongue like syrup. 

He finished the pastry in two seconds flat before glancing back at the notebook. Sure enough, when he wandered into the living area, Dazai could hear the pitter-patter of the shower echoing from their bathroom and couldn't help his smile. So he is home, then. 

The little hallway between the bedroom and the rest of the apartment was lined with all kinds of beautiful art—not Dazai’s, of course, that would be in very poor taste. Chuuya had picked it all out very carefully, analyzing every option with terrifying scrutiny before deciding it was either perfect or garbage. Dazai had suggested they hang Chuuya’s collection of Vogue covers in the space instead (there were at least thirty, it would have been the perfect way to fill the space), but he received a book to the head for that. 

They did not hang the Vogue covers.

“Slug?” Dazai slowly pushed open the door, reasonably expecting Chuuya to already be in the shower, but instead found him leaning against the bathroom counter, tugging off his shirt. 

When Chuuya caught sight of him, his brows raised and he blinked. His eyes trailed over Dazai, standing silent as he was scrutinized, and then his lips curled up into a crooked, genuine smile. “Hey, Osamu.”

Chuuya stood in a pair of loose grey sweatpants, holding his shirt in calloused hands—Dazai’s shirt, he noted with no small amount of amusement. His nails were painted a deep maroon, likely for the photo shoot, but it was very similar to the shade Chuuya often wore on the day-to-day. His hair was unruly and curlier than usual with all the steam in the air, and his mismatched eyes practically glowed amidst all the white in the room. 

Dazai let out a little breath (of what? Relief? He was home, wasn’t he?) and took a few wide strides toward Chuuya. He watched him cock his head up almost defiantly as he took one of his hands and pressed a quick kiss to his knuckles. “Hello, mon chéri,” Dazai murmured. [“My darling.”]

Chuuya huffed and rolled his eyes, running his gaze all over Dazai’s face. He could feel it like fingertips. “Hi,” he whispered back, smiling. 

“Comment s'est déroulée la séance photos?” [“How did the photoshoot go?”]

Chuuya hummed. “Vraiment bien, en fait. Ils ont réparé les caméras et m'ont payé beaucoup trop cher pour m'être rendu sur place si rapidement.” [“Really well, actually. They fixed the cameras and paid me way too much for getting out there so short-notice.”]

Dazai chuckled, letting their hands fall in favor of wrapping his arms around Chuuya’s waist, pulling them closer. “Je ne peux pas leur en vouloir. Tu es Nakahara Chuuya, après tout.” [“I can’t blame them. You’re Nakahara Chuuya, after all.”] 

Chuuya rolled his eyes again, scoffing, but he was still smiling. “Ils devraient respecter le temps de chacun, et pas seulement le mien.” [“They should be respecting everyone’s time, not just mine.”]

“And I’m sure they do,” Dazai said, leaning down to give his nose a peck. “You’re just the most likely to throw a fit about it.” 

That earned him a smack to the shoulder. “I don’t throw fits, you bastard!” 

“Or perhaps they simply feel you should be compensated for your extra effort. You have to take twice as many steps as everyone else just to reach the set!” 

Chuuya hit him again. “Little fucker,” he hissed, eyes alight and mouth twisted up in a scowl. It was such a delightful sight that Dazai had to laugh, pressing it into Chuuya’s hair.

“Such cruelty! And after we’ve both suffered such long days, too,” Dazai pouted, pulling away to see Chuuya’s irritated expression morph into something suspiciously smug. He narrowed his eyes. “What.”

Chuuya hummed. “ Oh, nothing, you just… I watched that interview on the way home. You were trying really hard to keep it together with that woman, weren’t you?”

Dazai groaned and buried his face in Chuuya’s neck, savoring the way his bare chest rumbled as he laughed. “I knew you would make fun of me.” 

“I mean, it looked like it took a lot of effort on your part,” he snorted. “Je devrais tu féliciter, pour être honnête. Je ne pensais pas que vous tiendriez jusqu'au bout.” [“I should be congratulating you, to be honest. I didn't think you'd make it through the whole thing.”]

“Tu es incroyablement cruelle,” Dazai grumbled. [“You’re incredibly cruel.”] 

Chuuya chuckled. “You’re just a big baby.” 

“Case in point.” 

Dazai felt Chuuya’s hand snake up his neck and begin to card through his hair, and he closed his eyes as nails began to slowly, gently scratch his scalp. It was a familiar sensation, but that didn’t make it any less pleasurable. 

Dazai could hear Chuuya’s smile even before he spoke. "Tu n'avais pas besoin de torturer cette pauvre fille, tu sais.” [“You didn't have to torture that poor girl, you know.”]

“Je sais,” Dazai hummed. “Mais c'est tellement plus amusant comme ça.” [“I know. But it’s so much more fun that way.”] 

Chuuya rolled his eyes, but Dazai knew he was still wearing that toothy grin despite himself. “You’re a menace,” Chuuya snorted. 

Dazai (somewhat regrettably) lifted his head and pulled back, just enough to give Chuuya a smug smile. “But you love it.” 

“Why on Earth would you think that?” he asked, blinking innocent eyes that contrasted greatly with his knowing smirk. 

Dazai huffed and stuck out his lower lip in a pout. “Si cruel. It’s a wonder I’m still here, you know.” [“So cruel.”]

Chuuya cocked his head back and arched a brow. “Ah ouais?” [“That so?”]

It was incredibly unfair how easily Chuuya could leave him tongue-tied. All he had to do was stand there and Dazai would fall to his knees. 

He watched that damning smirk widen ever so slightly, just before Chuuya’s hands traveled down to his waist. He hooked his thumbs into the belt loops on Dazai’s slacks and yanked him closer, forcing a short, shallow breath out of him. 

Chuuya’s brown eye looked like molten copper in the light, flickering like a candle flame. He looked amused, too, and unfairly sexy. He leaned forward, close enough that Dazai could feel his lips graze the shell of his ear. He shivered. 

“Y’know, as much as I’d love to take you apart right now,” he muttered, and Dazai sucked in a breath. He could think of fewer things better, actually, but Chuuya pulled away just as quickly as he’d crowded in and Dazai watched his smirk melt into a genuine, gentle smile. “We’re both beat. Join me?” He waved vaguely to the shower behind him—Dazai had nearly forgotten about it entirely. 

He hummed, skimming his fingers absentmindedly along the waistband of Chuuya’s low-hanging sweatpants. “I could think of nothing better.” 

Chuuya wasted no time. He grabbed at the hem of Dazai’s shirt and drew it up quickly enough that Dazai yelped in surprise. Chuuya laughed at that like the cruel person he was, and Dazai chuckled in return, and then they peeled off the rest of each other’s layers like giggling children. 

When they were both free of their clothes, Chuuya pushed him into the shower hard enough that he almost slipped and broke his face on the tile. This was apparently very amusing because when Dazai properly righted himself, Chuuya was watching him with a wide smile and mirth dancing in those glorious eyes. 

“Tu es un idiot,” he chuckled, reaching up to tangle his fingers in Dazai’s steadily dampening hair. [“You’re an idiot.”]

Dazai stuck his lower lip out in a pout and pretended that he wasn’t as stricken as he surely looked. “Cruel.” [“Cruel.”]

Chuuya’s lashes fluttered, flinging water droplets onto his high cheekbones. His hair was at least three shades darker, like burnt copper, and in looser curls than usual. The water dripped onto his collarbones, trailing down his chest, his torso. 

“Si beau,” Dazai murmured, breathless. [“So beautiful.”]

Dazai would always appreciate Chuuya’s physical appeal. Who wouldn’t? He had spent the last few years doing nothing but that, with tens of hundreds of paintings to prove it. It was simply a fact that Chuuya was the most incredible beauty to walk the Earth. 

However, it was the life beneath it all that Dazai was truly in love with. 

Chuuya’s body was compact, taut with lean, lovely muscle. He stood proudly on strong and sturdy legs, holding his head high no matter how uneven his footing. Despite his troubles, his difficulties in travel, in school, in breaking into the modeling industry, and despite all of Dazai’s own faults, he never wavered, not one time. 

His hair was unruly and wild and demanded attention (as if the rest of him didn’t). It was the color of a raging fire most of the time, but during midday when the sun reflected off the surface of the Seine to hit it just right, the edges were lit up in bright, brilliant golden. It was a loud thing, utterly unapologetic. Reminds him of someone. 

Of course, then there were Chuuya’s eyes. 

The left was soft, a few shades lighter than Dazai’s and warmer, like honey. It was a bit more forgiving, too, than that piercing blue of the right, which Dazai still felt his skin prickle beneath on most days. There was such a stark contrast between the two of them, and it reminded him of the way Chuuya contradicted himself just the same. Glowing with fury one minute and sweet-talking the next was one of the many things that turned Dazai’s life from a monotonous hellscape (perhaps that was a bit dramatic) into what he had now. 

A dream. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

Chuuya’s voice, low and gentle and rumbling, brought Dazai out of his reverie. Chuuya was watching him with those damning eyes, looking both curious and confused. 

Dazai hummed. “Nothing.” 

“Liar.” 

“You.” 

Chuuya chuckled, but Dazai didn’t miss the faintest flush rise to color his cheeks. Score. “That so?” 

He reached out to wrap his arms around Chuuya’s bare hips and drew them closer, watching the water drip from Chuuya’s bangs down onto his cheekbones and pool beneath his chin. “You occupy far more of my headspace than I’d like to admit,” he murmured. 

“I can tell. You built a career off of it.” 

Dazai chuckled, relishing the warm, gooey feeling spread through his chest. “I did indeed.” 

Chuuya watched him silently, lips lifted into the faintest smile as his eyes ran up and down Dazai’s face, flitting over every inch like he was committing it to memory. Dazai had been at the mercy of Chuuya’s stare hundreds of thousands of times since their college days, but that would never silence the thrum he felt just beneath his skin when Chuuya focused so wholly on him. It was almost startling. 

“What?” he murmured. 

Chuuya’s lips twitched. “Rien,” he replied, reaching past Dazai for their overpriced lavender shampoo. [“Nothing.”]

The rest of the shower proceeded rather quietly. Dazai spent most of the time washing and conditioning Chuuya’s hair, listening to Chuuya tease him about his fixation. They finished in due time, after they were both bright red and the entire apartment was filled with steam. They’d probably used up all the hot water in the building, Dazai thought without a lick of guilt as he pulled on a worn cotton tee and a pair of boxers. Chuuya returned from the kitchen a moment later, leaning against the doorframe with a glass of red wine and wearing a slouchy Led Zeppelin t-shirt that certainly didn’t belong to him. 

Dazai couldn’t help but chuckle as he patted his hair dry. “You’re drowning in that.” 

Chuuya rolled his eyes, but he seemed quite unbothered by the fact that the hem of the shirt was only a few inches shy of his knees. “It’s soft.” 

Dazai huffed a small laugh and glanced toward the large windows by the bed, overlooking nighttime Paris. The city was vibrant at all hours of the day, but the transition period between evening and night seemed the most peaceful to Dazai. The sun had set, the glow of apartment lights was soft, and there was always a pair of lovers or two walking along the Seine under an umbrella. It was after the bustle of the day and before the midnight madness, offering a glorious lull. 

“Hey, Osamu.” 

Dazai blinked, pulled gently from his reverie. “Hm?”

“Can I see that painting you’ve been working on?” 

Chuuya was still leaning in the doorway, swirling his glass of wine and watching from beneath low lids. And normally Dazai would tell him no, there were far too many details to finish, that this piece was special, that he needed to be far closer to perfection before anyone else could view it, especially Chuuya. 

But there was something about tonight, about the way Chuuya watched him with that soft smile, about how Dazai could taste the sweet nostalgia in the air, that had him nodding and standing to take Chuuya’s hand. 

Their apartment was quite large compared to the average Paris apartment, but it was far smaller than one might expect from two people who probably could, with their combined wealth, buy Paris. Dazai’s ‘studio’ was a very tiny room near the back of their space, splattered in paint and flooded with light from the large windows overlooking the Seine. It had just enough room for an easel, a collection of empty or in-the-works canvases, a few stacks of different paint, charcoal, pastel, and pencil collections, and a small wooden stool. 

Dazai stopped just before entering and turned around, blocking Chuuya’s view of the room. “Close your eyes,” he instructed, to which Chuuya’s lips twitched. He did, though, just before Dazai took his hand and led him into the room. 

“You’re always so damn dramatic,” Chuuya muttered with a toothy smile, nearly tripping over a cup of paintbrushes on his way. 

“I do my best,” was Dazai’s reply as he stopped Chuuya right in front of the easel. “D'accord. Ouvrir.” [“Okay. Open.”]

Chuuya’s eyes fluttered open, and when he saw the painting, he went utterly still. 

The canvas was not very large, only a few inches shorter than Chuuya. It was a cityscape, not something Dazai would normally do when he could paint Chuuya in a field of camellias instead, and he’d used watercolor instead of his usual acrylics. It was the view of Paris from their bedroom windows, sprawled out before them with the moon hanging above, casting the city in blue and silver. The Seine glittered like starlight, as peaceful as the rest of the quiet city, illuminated only by the streetlights, the glow from flickering apartment windows, and the golden Eiffel Tower. The strokes were messy for the most part, bleeding into each other until the entire city became a runny blob if you stood close enough. From a few steps back, though, the details came together, and if one was perceptive enough, they would be able to see a flicker of brown and red near the Tower, two little lovers amidst the sea of the city. 

Dazai looked over at Chuuya and found a hundred different emotions flickering in his expression; eyes wide, lips parted, arms limp at his sides. He wasn’t saying anything, but Dazai knew what that look meant. 

“Osamu,” he whispered, hardly blinking. “C’est beau.” [“It’s beautiful.”] 

An indescribable warmth spread through Dazai’s body, pooling pleasantly in his gut and making his fingertips tingle. “I’m glad you think so," he chuckled. "I still have a lot to do, but—”

He was cut off by a pair of arms being thrown around his shoulders and a pair of lips crashing onto his, fierce and insistent. Dazai didn’t waste a second in twining his hands around Chuuya’s waist as Chuuya kissed him senseless. 

He pulled away as quickly as he’d come, fingers twining into the hair at Dazai’s nape. He was grinning widely, toothy and raw and so unapologetically Chuuya.

“Je t’aime,” he declared like the cruel, cruel person he was. [“I love you.”]

Dazai let out a little breath and leaned down to bury his face in Chuuya’s hair, savoring everything in this moment like they’d never have another. The smell of Chuuya’s lavender shampoo, his soft t-shirt, the feel of his smile against his pulse point. 

“Je t'aime aussi,” he muttered, stupid and breathless and drunk on love. [“I love you too.”]

Chuuya grinned. “I’m pretty glad you ran into me in the hallway that day.” 

Dazai gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Only pretty glad?”

Chuuya shrugged with a knowing glint in his eyes. “Yeah. You’re alright.”

“I cannot believe I married such a brute.” 

“Hey, that’s all on you. You could’ve said no.” 

Dazai thought back to that day, when Chuuya dragged him out one late autumn night to an empty Eiffel Tower, alight and glittering gold. He recalled the way it had lit up Chuuya’s hair and his mismatched eyes, and how he was so distracted by the blinding life emanating from him that he hadn’t even noticed the band Chuuya had slipped onto his finger. 

Marry me, he’d said with that heartbreaker grin, so ardently and so assuredly, like there wasn’t a single lifetime they would spend apart. 

Dazai had lost his breath, his voice, his ability to form a coherent thought as he stared at Chuuya. Chuuya hadn’t said anything as Dazai reached into his pocket and pulled out the exact same ring, the one he’d planned to give him just a second before Chuuya beat him to it. 

And Chuuya, naturally, had laughed, and leaned forward to kiss him, and that was when Dazai finally came to his senses enough to whisper a quiet I love you against his lips, and slipped the matching ring onto Chuuya’s finger. 

Dazai pressed his smile into Chuuya’s hair, shaking his head and letting the memory soak him to the bone with sticky, sweet nostalgia. “No,” he murmured. “No, I couldn’t.” 

Chuuya chuckled at that, turning around to look back at the unfinished painting on the easel. “What are you gonna call it?” he asked, eyes wandering over the bleeding colors. 

Dazai hummed, arms around Chuuya’s waist and chin resting on his shoulder. That had been the subject of many a late-night contemplation, and he still wasn’t quite sure, but...

“Lost in Translation,” he replied with a small smile. 

Chuuya chuckled, the low sound rumbling through Dazai’s body. “I like it,” he said, turning around again to face Dazai. “Reminds me of something.” 

“Is that so?” 

Chuuya’s eyes were bright. “Yeah. We found it, though.” 

Dazai blinked. As far as he knew, that wasn’t how the expression went. “Found what?” 

Chuuya grinned. “Love,” he answered with a shrug. 

Dazai stared at him for a moment, struck, and then he pulled them closer and captured Chuuya’s lips in a proper kiss, hands around his waist as he smiled against his lips.

Of course, Chuuya pulled away far too soon, pressing a finger to Dazai's lips when he tried to chase him. "Allez, idiot," he chuckled, grabbing Dazai's hand and dragging him toward the bedroom. "Nous devons encore faire nos valises." ["C'mon, idiot. We've still gotta pack."]

The Paris sky was a sweet velvet blue that night. It watched kindly over the city, and smiled down on all its lovers, and the stars outside the window twinkled more brightly than usual.